There are only two feelings in this world

The first is standing with your friends
holding hands
on top of a van stark naked
at five a.m.
watching the sun paint the sky with red and orange and yellow and gold
and feeling the palms of the two people you know better than yourself interlinked with yours
howling into the almost-day-yet-not-quite-night
overcome with your ambitions and hopes and dreams and songs and sights all at once
and you feel alive
alive
alive

The second is sitting on your balcony
with your legs hanging over the ledge
your feet barely touching the rain as the storm pours down
listening to songs from the 60s on the radio
wondering why they don't write songs like this anymore
while all your friends are at a new years party at some kid you don't even know's house
and you're staring out into the ocean as somewhere over your head the countdown starts
and you know you'll be alone for the rest of your life
happy new year

the thing about school
is it kills beauty

one does not learn to appreciate
a painting by analyzing brushstrokes,
shading,
one does not learn to appreciate
a poem by analyzing metaphors, similes
form, structure, rhyme.
one does not learn to appreciate
a sonata by analyzing cadence, melody
rhythm, harmony

we love art because when we
look at a painting, we see life in its most
basic form.
we love literature because when we
read a poem, we understand the beauty of
the world.
we love music because when we
listen to a sonata, we can hear the fabric
of the universe unravelling.

dear teacher
you cannot teach us these things
because we feel the earth in our bones
we hear the wind and it echoes in our soul
we understand the way the sunlight falls
over each and every one of us

and we know what it feels like
to be alone
to be alive
because that is how the world works

you cannot teach us how to love
one does not learn how to breathe
you just
do

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

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

One day I woke up and realized I shouldn't love you
So I wrote this to remind me why

you lie and you cry and you
flirt with other guys and
hate my eyes and
always ignore
me and sigh
whenever I ask you what's
wrong and you reply with some
cryptic *******

and some days you just sit
at your table with your
thumbs inside the sleeve of your
yellow sweater and you trace your scars
you made with your razor
in your bedroom when you
thought no one loved you but
I really did

and you never want to
answer when I ask
why or when or how
or who or what
made you cry
but I know that it's why
your eyes are stained blood red

and i don't know if i hate
you because you scar yourself
or love you because
of the way you hide it

and I know that I'm cheap
not gold like in your dreams
but like that old guy who died
once said
find what you love and
let it **** you

and you sure as hell **** me

and you know that thing
that you said about how
things get better but things
also get worse and I don't think
you realize how much that means
because with you nothing ever gets better
it just gets worse and worse and Worse
with a capital W

and finally I hate how you never
use Love with a CAPITAL L
but instead you always
use love like I love him
and I love this and I love
that and I love you but you never
Loved him or Loved this
or Loved that
or Loved me

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

like the leaves
or branches
of the mighty oak
tree.

like the petals
of the rose, or the
lilac or lily.

like the gathering
tears on your
eyelash's ridge

like night, or rain
or the broken
boy on the bridge

we must all eventually fall.

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

She's the kind of girl
who would walk up to a
stranger and kiss him
or her on the mouth and
not give a **** what anyone else thought
And if she could, she'd make every single one
of her dreams come true, even
the nightmares.
And night after night she
finds comfort in the arms of strangers
and cigarettes and cheap wine.
And she'd do anything to stop feeling
so ******* lonely.
So ******* empty.
So ******* numb.

She's the kind of girl
that would set fire to her hair
just to feel alive.

once when he was five
he made up a song
while riding on his favorite swing
and when he fell off and scraped
his shin, his brother told him
not to cry because
girls liked scars.

and that night as his father
tucked him into bed he hummed
the song he made up
while riding on his favorite swing
and fell asleep in two minutes

once when he was fourteen, he stared
out the window of a parked car for hours
gazing at the stars
and wondered if they thought he was beautiful.
that was the year he first kissed a boy

once on a blank piece of paper
he tried to write a song
but forgot how it went
and that was the year that his brother
went to college and he was
put into foster care because his mother left
and his father was too drunk
to tuck him in at night

and that was the year the boy he kissed
introduced him to the bottom of a bottle
and the taste of cigarettes
and thats how most nights went

once he began to make art
on a blank wrist and he thought
the only way to end the pain
was to break the veins that
bound him to this broken world
and when his brother came back
for christmas and saw his scars,
he didn't say anything
at all

that was the year the boy he first kissed
beat him in english class
and called him a ******
and spit in his face

once when he was seventeen
he stole the keys to a stranger's car
humming a song he had
forgotten the tune to
and drove out into the middle of
nowhere and as he gazed
into the sky he finally understood
that the stars didn't think he was beautiful
because they were all empty inside

and so was he

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

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.