I feel
strangely drained
like a bleached Polaroid
taken in the dark.

Life is largely
color/less
and so god
**** tiring.

If I close my eyes
the black space
between flickers
gets longer and longer.

Maybe if I close
them hard enough
I'll lose years
instead of minutes.

Everything I once loved
is dull and so god
****
color/less.

whenever I look at you
there's a little tingle in the back of my spine
like birds playing on telephone wires

not quite electric but a little
jumpy, sweet, rushing sounds in my ears;
a little pulse in the back of my throat

a little knot in my lungs
where someone I used to know
used to live

and you come in with your magic hands
and you reach into my chest
and unravel so I can breathe

isn't it weird how people attach beauty to certain objects
or certain things, or certain places

all I'm saying is
the sound of falling rain
doesn't knock the breath out of my chest
the way your fingernails do

Its that time of night
when all I do is try to write
but all that comes out is
words and not WORDS

Everything is funnier
in this funny time of night
and yet nothing has made you
want to cry so hard in your life

Isn't everyone lonely
in this lonely time of night
but a thousand other people
are lonely tonight

Lets all be lonely together

It's getting to that time of night
when the numbness becomes
unbearably
light

I'm afraid I'm starting to feel again
and believe me
I've never wanted to understand
why all our lives end

It's finally that time of night
when blood looks blue and not red

do you know how many times i've had to suffer through the same tired metaphors over and over and over again.

put down your tears and your stars
and your cigarettes and your coffee
and your waves and your skies
and your hearts and your bruises
and pick up your pen and write
something worth living for ******* it.

because i haven't read a poem from the heart in years
and all your elaborate conceits and sadness and promises
and "i love you"s and lips and dreams
are getting on my ******* nerves.

rage against the stereotypes and conventions and
rage against Petrarchan and Romantic and
Post ******* Modern love.

Don't write something because you feel like it.
Write something because you would explode if you didnt

and for a moment there our hands almost touched

but I didn't know what to say
it was late and we were both drunk
the sky had been dark for hours
and everyone inside the house was loud and
I could barely hear myself think

and I wanted to tell you
so much it hurt my chest
and the ice unfolded in my stomach
and killed all the butterflies

but I knew you'd never think of me
that way and so we just sat
on the railing outside some kid's house

and I swallowed all the love I felt for you
bitter and writhing and alive in my throat

and stayed silent as the sun came up