I knew i would have to say goodbye when I said hello and I thought that was painful enough.

I let myself love you,
I had a choice and this was the first time it was difficult to love someone.
Not because of you
but because of your near departure.

I sleep in the same bed, but it's not mine anymore, it's your.
It'll be a few weeks before all your hairs are stripped from the sheets
And it'll be a lot longer before I stop loving you.

You want to believe and I want to believe and I didn't lie the first time I told you I'd see you again and I don't intend on ever lying to you.

The mere idea of your person
is a tonic, potent enough to intoxicate.
And intoxicated I will be
as long as your words
roll of your lips
and ring in my ears.
It's hard to say
but it's easy to feel:
all I want is you
and all I need is a chance.

A connection made is a chance for it to fail,
and some thing never loving is better
than taking the chance of losing love.
I could not disagree with these people more.
Perhaps they have never met someone like you
and perhaps they will never.
Perhaps they have never been drunk
off lust
or perhaps they refuse to alter their
state of consciousness enough
to allow lust to manifest itself
into a physical ache.
More than mental yearning,
I can feel it in my gut;
pulsing and pounding,
feeling its way to every corner of my body.

Perhaps the brandy is actually what's intoxicating me;
for every glass I drink
the pulsing becomes quicker,
the pounding becomes harder
and the feeling reaches parts of my body
I didn't know could feel.

I'm so excited!
I'm growing up!
I'm so excited!
I'm throwing up!

I pay taxes!
I have a job!
I pay taxes!
I'm no slob!

I'm looking for an apartment!
I'm finishing school!
I'm looking for an apartment!
Being an adult is cool!

I cut down to two packs a week!
I have a savings account!
I cut down to two packs a week!
I smoke a healthier amount!

I get high!
I can't sleep!
I get high!
I'm in knee deep!

I get high!
I can't sleep!
I get high!
The ***** deep!

I get high!
Or else I can't sleep!
I get high!
Or else I can't eat!

I'm an adult!
Life is great!
I'm an adult!
I'm full of hate!

**** me now!
The stars are bright!
**** me now!
My head isn't right!

I hate myself!
I love you too!
I hate myself!
I love you too!

I'm full of stress!
I can't rest!
I'm full of stress!
God ******, I'm doing my best.

We used to smoke **** together by the school.
You were practically my sister and I loved you.
You always had the good **** and you always had cigarettes.
After a while **** was not enough.
You showed up with ***** one day and we got *******.
This went on too long.
We feel into the habits our parents warned us against.
We blew off friends and family,
we lost relationships and trust but we had our **** and our *****.
We had each other and that was all we needed.
I remember when we shared our house and how happy we were.
I would go to school because you made me.
You would go to work so we could afford our life.
When you got home, always a quarter after six, we would drink.
One day, a Tuesday, you came home with junk.
You said it was good stuff, you knew the chemist who made it.
So we snorted.
That's when it all started.
We snorted, every time more and more.
After maybe three years that was not enough.
You were the first to stick that needle in your arm.
I followed with the same ******* needle.
Next was ****.
I stayed away from it but you shot up. Twice a day for months at a time.
You quit your job and cashed in the money we had been saving for a car.
I started to hate you.
I ******* hated you and I told you everyday.
Eventually I kicked ******'s demon off my back.
I smoked **** and watched you fall apart.
Their would be random guys at our house and you got only god knows how many diseases.
All so you could get your ******* fix.
A year ago today was the last time I saw you.
I hope you read this and I hope you ******* hate yourself, Carol Dean.

It's like this:
You sit in your bedroom and the fan is on, the window is open, yet it is still hot.
You have your laptop open and music is playing.
On your walls there are numerous posters, a world map, and a dartboard.
On your nightstand there are letters from last year's World History teacher, empty bottles, a switchblade and an ashtray.
There are books on your shelf written by many great authors, poets, playwrights, and philosophers.
In your hand there is a cigarette, and in the other there is The Stranger by Albert Camus.
You sit alone, smoking and reading and drinking and suddenly you stop doing all of these things because inspiration has struck.
Although you prefer a pen and paper, you begin typing on your laptop.
The words come out and form sentences.
The sentences form stanzas
and eventually the stanzas form a finish a finish product.
That is what it's like to be anything at all.

I guess my first girlfriend and my mother were right in coloring me a hopeless romantic.

You effect me so deeply,
you're thousands of stone throws away
and I can still feel you choking me.
I miss you
like the low tide misses the beach,
only I don't have the nautical reassurance of knowing I'll see you again.

You're childish, rash, and prone to injuries; physical and otherwise.
You're so many beautiful things and you're a few ugly things and I wouldn't trade you for the greenest grass, the sweetest peach, or the everlasting nothingness of death.
I'd trade my assurance of death for your touch, for your whisperings in my ear, for your hairs in my bed.

I hate myself for feeling like this,
I'm disgusted in myself for writing this.

I wanted to tell you about my day today, it was wonderful, it was magical, it was sober and I did not grieve your absence; in fact, I didn't note it.

The sadness comes in waves.

I said let's do it in the shower.
She said baby, don't you know we're in a drought?

It slipped my mind, the television and the computer distracted me.
There's water coming out of the spigot and a beautiful friend is laying on my couch, I guess I forgot I wasn't dreaming.

High off hash joints and opiates,
I don't remember driving home.
My mother looked me in the eye.
Are you okay, she says.
I told her I was sick.


I looked at you in the morning and I was happy

I can almost picture it,
you, so small and so powerful,
scratching the words of an angry night
with no cigarettes on a wall.
And I can almost picture it,
but not quite.
Was there a lamp on?
I imagine so.
If so, then what color?
In the scenario entrapped inside my brain
it is a small purple lamp,
place upon a desk, or a night stand.
A bed is also in my dream of your room,
as there undoubtedly is in real life.
And in my dream it is covered with a light,
soft green that goes uncannily well with the shade of the lamp.
And the walls, well in my mind they are white.
And those words,
the words of an angry night with no cigarettes
are scratched upon that white wall with a charcoal pencil.
In a neat handwriting that angles down a bit as it goes from left to right.
And this is probably not so in real life
but that matters not.

Tonight, is a happy night,
spent with many cigarettes.
Therefore,
I this poem will not be written on a wall.
It was not be cast upon by a purple hue.
Nor will it be highlighted by a white wall.

'Tis well.

Jusst going to float
down the stream
nicknamed The Best Years of My Life.

Just going to lay on my back
and soak up some sun
and try not to worry to much.

Just going to twiddle my thumbs
and have some fun
chilling out, relaxing, maxing all cool...

Just going to free my mind
and not think about you,
or life and all the grief it holds.

Just going to float down the stream that my brightly colored Strings are gently caressed in.
And relax.

I'm wondering why
tonight of all nights
you look as gorgeous as you do.

I'm wondering why
the minute I try and forfeit the game
you lure me right back in.

Why is it,
that on a Friday night
spent with friends and drugs and bad decisions
I refuse to make the one good decision I desire?

I struggle to see the moon for the clouds
and I struggle to see your eyes for the light
and I can't make out which is worse.
Not seeing the one thing always there to comfort me
or a chunk of rock in space.

I write about it a lot,
but the truth is
love is fleeting.

Like a bird
that lands on a lamppost
it will remain for only a moment.
Before departing;
spreading it's wings
and flying to a new heart.

Tell me,
dear friend,
are the leaves changing color in Denmark?

Does the moon guide you home at night?
Does the sun wake you up with gentle kisses?

I would walk a mile
and a thousand more
to hear you tell me everything will be okay,
to hear you tell me
that I will make it.
That it only gets better.
Because that's what I need right now.

Are the leaves falling of the trees in Denmark?
Are the children getting paid to rake them up?
Are the mothers loving their children?
Are the fathers keeping them safe?
Can you hear me calling?
Over the mountains
and the across the ocean
my voice will be heard.
And you shall be the one to hear it.

Tell me,
dearest friend,
is it raining in Denmark?
It won't stop here.

I wonder
If I were gone
Who would care?
I'm not saying nobody would care.
I'm merely asking a question, so get over yourself.
I have a shrink to talk to when I feel like killing myself.
He's a nice guy, really. Old, and Jewish. He doesn't know what it's like to hate yourself.
But I'm not kidding, would you care if I died? I would care if you died. I might cry.
I don't cry very often. I used to a lot. Back when I was heartbroken.
Back when I was in love.
But you're not going to die.
Because too many people love you.
Trust me, loved ones don't die. It's in the Bible or something.
Loved ones don't have scars on their wrists. They don't drink their lives away.
Trust me.
I never lie.
I know what I'm talking about.
I read it in the Bible.
Don't listen to a word I say.
The only thing that matters is that you are loved.
And I would miss you.
And nothing happens when you die.

You're no further away than you were before, but the high tide is in and I accidentally slipped my floaty onto the train with you, and I'm afraid of drowning.

It was so easy to love you and maybe that's why it's so hard now.

Before, thinking of you brought feelings of peace, well being, contentment.
And now, through no fault of yours (rather through the faults of a jealous heart beating in my chess) when I think of you it's always marked with feelings of sadness, anger, and (naturally, I suppose) jealousy.

I'm gasping for breath,
I have no floaty pulling me to the surface.
The shore I left from is a lot closer than the one I wish to reach, and I don't know if I should swim back, keep going, or drown.

I'd trade your meaningless existence for a pack of cigarettes.
Don't think my hatred for you is anything special.
You're not special.
Just like the **** ups you hangout with.
Just like what you stand for.

I hope I'm coming across as rude because that's what you deserve.
You're a miserable ****.
The best thing you've ever done in life is inspire me to write.
And I thank you for that.
I give you a standing ovation.

Unlike at the theater, no one is yelling encore.
The hallow applause is nothing but good manners.
Something you were born without.
Never taught.
Never cared to learn.

Just roll over and die already.
It'd be the second best thing you've done in your worthless existence.

~

Oh, how I miss you so.

/
Sick of people.
Sick of these self diagnosed depressed teenagers.
Sick of these self proclaimed hipsters.
Sick of these self prescribed med ******.
Sick of life.
/

I came to you at night,
in my dreams,
but I awoke with cold feet
and an ache in my heart.

In my mind I brought you carnations and you brought me
love.

I remember the night I graduated from Olympus Mons Military Academy.
I remember what my father told me,
the "one hundred percent true story of the creation of mankind."

There was a being who lived on Venus, all alone he lived, so alone he wasn't even sure he was living. This being had no name, but they had a heart that beat and a mind that thought.
He lived on a Venus that this universe has never seen, nor will ever see. Space and time are fabrics, but even the finest of linens have space, impossibly small amounts of space and within them universes. This being lived on a Venus woven into the fabric of time itself.

This being prepared a torch,
fueled by matter the likes of which humanity knew, but has forgotten and will never remember.
He lit this torch and carried it through the fabric of time.
He spoke to beings there about time and he did not like what they thought of time and so he took the torch elsewhere, abandoning the others in a perfect nothingness.

He took his torch to Mercury and asked the beings there what they thought of space.
He did not like what they had to say about space and so he left them in their chaotic abundance of space.

Dissatisfied, he traveled to the furthest edge of the universe and looked Beyond. He asked the beings there what they thought of space and time.
They did not answer.
He asked them what they thought of existence and they told him to stop speaking.
They asked him what fueled his torch and he refused the answer.
They grew angry and decided to try and strike a bargain.
They told him they'd reveal their thoughts on time and space if he reveals what burns his torch.
They told him time is only within his mind and that space is a projection thereof.

He fled.
He fled to earth and dropped his torch there, and it burned to the center of the planet.

He returned to the fabric of Venus and thought for an impossible amount of time and willed time and space to cease and yet he could not.

After, he willed himself to cease existing and he did.

His torch stopped burning with him and humankind was born from the ashes, they crawled from the center of Earth and wept for their creator.

I asked my father what this meant and he told me to stop speaking, and asked me what fuels my torch. Once I answer that, I will understand.

We found it funny
that our shoes and shirts matched.

We heard people ask if we had planned it
and we told them we had not.

You also matched me shot for shot, until we lost the ability to count
and we decided it would be best to stop drinking.

In your bedroom I matched you kiss for kiss,
until our lips could not satisfy us anymore.

Breathe for breathe,
****** for ******,
moan for moan,
we matched and we matched and we matched
and nobody asked us if we had planned that.
If they did, we would have told them that we did not.

And now,
when people look at our lips
and necks
they will not need to know if we planned it,
because the matching of our hearts was planned
and perfected, and practiced.
Not by us,
yet we enjoy the rewards.

~

Today, a family friend marveled at how much I remind him of my father.
You must understand how much this scared me.
Nothing scares me more than addiction,
yet I perpetually submit myself to addictive behavior, substances, feelings.

These holes I've been digging cannot be dug forever.
There is a bottom and that is excommunication, prison, death.
No person will dig me out,
no person can.

The clock may move slower
after I use this,
and it may move quicker
after I use this.
It doesn't matter to me,
as long as moves in a way other than it does in sobriety.

The sun will rise and the sun will set,
all according to plan.
For hundreds of years into the future
astrologers have predicted at what time which stars
can be seen from certain locations on Earth.
Yet I do not know where I will be tomorrow.
I do not know who will be with me.
I do not know if my father will still love me,
or if we will still share a home, a family, blood.

One single minute ago it was yesterday.
But now it's today.
Minutes are a funny thing.
They can go by in the blink of an eye when you want them to last forever.
They can take forever to pass when you just want the next one to arrive.

Hours are an even funnier thing.
Just one hour ago I was shivering.
I was cold and I was alone and I was sick and I was thinking about you.
Now, an hour later I am uncomfortably hot and I am thinking about how to get my next pack of cigarettes.
One hour someone could be in love and the next they could be hateful.

Days are odd as well.
One day ago I was happy.
I was in a place that I love and I was enjoying myself.
Now, one day later I am home and yet I am home sick.
One day someone could be alive and the next day they could be dead.

Months are ridiculous.
One month ago I was carefree.
I smoked anything I could get my hands on and I was the highest flying bird in the sky.
Now, one month later I am recovering and I am paying the price.
One month someone could be scared for their life and the next they can be living without a single thought.

Now years, there's some tricky business.
One year ago I had morales.
I was strong and I stood by my beliefs and I was surrounded by love and friends.
Now, one year later I am intolerant and in need of a soul search.
One year someone could be the king of the world and the next they can be the one shoveling ****.

But lifetimes, don't even get me started on those.
One lifetime ago I could have been a priest. I could have been a king. I could have been a drug dealer and I could have been a drug addict.
Now, one lifetime later I am myself and I am happy and than sad and than happy and confused.
One lifetime can see a lot but it can also be blind from what's going on.

Time is a man made concept.
It is not real and it will never be real unless you let it.
You can let it control your life and make you decide on subjects you are not ready to.
Or you can **** on time and live your ******* life however you please.

"The past is a liar, the future a *****."

Now, there is this thing called distance...

Seven bottles filled with candle wax line my windowsill.
It's took me fifty-six days to fill them.
A bottle holds about eight candles
and I only burn the candles on days I feel empty.

You said you crave attention.

I'm prepared to give you all the attention you could ever need,
yet you pretend you don't hear me knocking.

Why?

Are you afraid of the feelings I have for you?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, they are nothing new.
Are you afraid of losing me because they are not reciprocated?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, and they have never been reciprocated.
The only way I will give up is if you continue what you're doing.

You're pushing me away and i'm tired of trying to catch up.

You're too busy with work you say,
yet you go to parties with him.
You're too busy with school you say,
yet you always have time for him.

I'm not jealous because you kiss him,
i'm jealous because he is stealing you from me.

I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, ******* it! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'

It was a victory really,
leaving this town, if only for a few days.

The drive was long, seven hours long,
but it was fun, an ounce of *** fun.

****** and in the dark
we set our tent up next to the beach.

When the moon rose and the waves grew louder
we opened our bags and procured brown mushrooms, which we ate.
A mile down the beach the mushrooms took effect
and I looked up at the stars
to find them looking back at me,
and it felt as if nature slapped me in the face
and I had to sit down.

We continued on,
stumbling and laughing and pointing at all the beautiful things we saw.
After a few hours, my brain took me in a direction I was not prepared to go.
You see, a beautiful girl appeared in my mind,
and I wanted nothing more than for her to spark the gas in my chest,
and allow me to shoot up into the stars,
the stars we have so often talked about.

But I could not feel her warmth,
and I could not touch her skin,
and I could not see her eyes.
And so I sat,
swimming in my mind,
observing burning cigarette after burning cigarette,
the smoking flowing in one ear
and out the other,
changed,
woven into intricate patterns.

Everything was beautiful,
and she was not there.

I feel myself decaying.
I count the cells dying;
there goes a brain cell,
and there a lung cell,
and there a mass ****** of skin cells,
a genocide of nerves.

I sit in dirt, wearing ***** clothes.
I live in filth.
I devour sunshine
and **** apathy.

I just don't care.
I have 14 cigarettes,
an eighth of shrooms and 30 dollars of ***,
and that's only counting what's in my coat pockets.

I'm dying,
but you call it living.
I'm suffering,
but you call it the best years of my life.

Don't tell my mom where I go when I say I'm going to Liam's,
it's not that she wouldn't understand,
it's worse.
She would understand all too well.

Chug a beer,
and another,
count only the cells dying that don't regenerate,
just as the trust you find in other's won't.

Tuck me into a blanket of ****,
and kiss me goodnight.

~

Don't you ever stop. Continue eternally.

Cast your eyes down from the shooting stars;
I am everything you have been wishing for.

I am everything your father does not want you to bring home
and everything your mother wishes your father was.

I **** like you wish your boyfriend could
and my tongue will sing you a song until your abdomen explodes.

My writing causes girls to cry like all the boys wish theirs could
and the pain in your chest will recede with every kiss I give you.

I fight better than my father and his father, all the way to Cain.
only, God won't see what I've been doing and He will not forgive me for it.

Seeing how our subliminal tactics didn't work,
I decided a new method should be used
to win her heart.

20 shots of Cinnamon *** later
I lay puking into a toilet
with her in the next room.

I fell asleep there, on the bathroom floor,
and woke up on the other side of town,
in a nice comfortable bed.

Sitting up, I noticed the array
of posters on the wall and remembered
never having been in this room.

Surveying the room,
pulse pounding,
I found a note:

"Nolan,
went to work. Feel better.
E."

-
Nothing
is more
scary than
realizing
you still love
the person
you told
you no
longer
want to
talk to.
-*

I've been thinking about all the wrongs
I did to you and did while we were together.
And maybe it's that I want to apologize
and maybe it's that I've been feeling weird
all day and this is why.

I don't know what I want.
I want to not want you.
How terribly inconvenient attraction is.
How terribly inconvenient your beauty is to me.
I may regret this later,
after your eyes have chanced upon it
but that's only if you take it the wrong way.

Orange hair on a hard mattress.
You smelt of lavender and gin
and I knew in some adverse way
that I was responsible for both
and from it I took small pleasures
all of them equally as perverse
and unjustified.

It's all the motions of unrequited love;
except it's as far from unrequited as it could be
and I'm happy about that.

A man once told me that someday I might be happy
that I didn't get the things I so strongly yearned for.

He said might, but he did not emphasize it.

A Half Forgotten Memory of the Train Tracks in Puget Sound

It's nights like this
and it's girls like her
and it's wine like my father's
that make me enjoy drinking alone.
The taste of the locally produced wine
and the failure of love despicably drawn out
and the dry heat of scorching July nights that validate my drunken state.

Understanding that no two headed boy will save me tonight
and the acceptance of lost cigarettes makes this night
even more painful and forlorn.


The shadows envelope the tip of the Tree around nine o'clock this time of year.
The heat stays
and so will I.
Drunken,
nervous,
longing,
afraid.
With no two headed boy to save me tonight.

It feels like a life time ago,
but in reality it has only been a few months.

I remember, the last thing I did before falling asleep
with you in my arms was kiss you,
and the last thing I did before that was make love to you.

I remember, the first thing I did after waking up
with you in my arms was kiss you,
and the next thing I did after that was make love to you.

But that's gone,
it died with the summer.

Tradition dies with love  
and distaste is born with loss.

Sniff sniff, swallow,
to get the feeling you gave me.
Sniff sniff, swallow,
to make myself feel.

On the first day I noticed nothing but your hair.
How it caught the sunlight and reflected it tenfold.
How it swayed around your neck.

On the second day I noticed nothing but your lips.
How they individually felt between my teeth.
How they left marks upon my neck and thighs.

On the third day I noticed nothing but your mouth.
How the words flowed out, powerful as an ocean.
How your teeth would bite me ear, drawing blood.

On the fourth day I noticed nothing but your hands.
How they held mine, always eager to calm them.
How they pulled the needle out of your arm, quivering.

On the fifth day I noticed nothing but your legs.
How they powerfully allowed you to stride great lengths.
How they were ever in motion, even in your deepest parts of sleep.

On the day sixth I noticed nothing but collarbones.
How I wanted nothing more but to crawl in to them and rest.
How I could gently **** on them, causing your whole body to palpitate.

On the seventh day and for years since I have noticed nothing but each individual hair on your body.
They each have a name, Kassandra, Jared, Peter, Ryan, Falyn, Jacob, Hammed, Caroline, Audrey, Yo-Landi, Diane, Khajjitt, Daralyn, forever and ever and ever.

On the last day I noticed how I never noticed your eyes.
But you were gone,
and I could not tell you what color they are.

The world is absurd and nothing is of value.
There is no meaning in these daily rituals.
All these petty relationships and petty jobs and pathetic people they have no value.

There is no such thing as love.
Your mother will never love you.
You are a broken ****** and don't let anyone lie to you.
When people say children are a blessing knock their teeth out; they are wrong.
When people tell you there is a god knock their teeth out.
When people tell you there is no god knock their teeth out.

No matter how many people surround you, you will die alone.
Just as you came into this world.
Whatever god you prayed to will not welcome you with wide arms.
Whatever hell you feared will not be burning.
Whatever world you left will not miss you.

You are alone in this world.
The only thing you can confirm is yourself.
You are real.
You are here.
Nobody else is.
Everything revolves around you.
You.

You think of yourself as smart, attractive and courageous.
I am here to tell you to knock your teeth in; you are wrong.
When you sleep the world stops.
You.
You.
You.
*You.

I've already smoked most of my cigarettes while the night (along side my six pack of Angry Orchard Hard Cider) is still young.
The stars are outside
and in a few moments
when my head clears a bit I will join them.
I have so many places I could go.
In fact, the options are limitless.
There's the church parking lot across the street,
or the forest beyond it, hiding pleasant little benches to sit upon.
There's my favorite spot as of late
which is simply a bucket which sits next to my truck which sits in my parking spot on the street.
There's always my truck, which could take me to many far away places but I've already had a few beers and don't trust myself to that.
I could stay inside, and not greet the stars.
I could simply stuff a towel under my door, turn the fan on, face it out the window and smoke
but the house is stupidly hot and the stars, I would miss.
I could also stay inside,
write what i call ****** poetry
and what one beautiful girl cried about
and not smoke.
Bud *******, I want a cigarette.
Looks as if the bucket will be seeing me soon.

Holidays have always been a tricky thing for me.

On Father's Day I stole my father's vicodin.
On Easter I got black out drunk.
On my sister's third birthday I smoked Salvia.
On Christmas I stole my Aunt's brandy.
On New Years I stayed home alone and smoked cigarettes 5 hours into the new year.
On St. Patrick's day I saw a lot of green. And smoked a lot of green as it happened.
On the first day of summer I was in summer school.
On the first day of school I ditched.
On Valentines Day I bought myself chocolate and cried.
On Halloween I dressed up as myself and got my stomach pumped.
On my birthday I stayed home from school sick and watched TV all day.

But on the day I first spoke with her I was in a black box.

I have been in love since the moment I was born.

My mother was first and for a long time she held my heart.
At five she still had my love but so did Clint Eastwood.
That poncho wearing, cigarette smoking cowboy was the dad I never had.

In the sixth grade it was Stacy Smith.
She was my Wendy Peppercorn,
my Messiah,
my World Series Ring.
my love.

I made it to high school after
a few brief people put stars in my eyes.
In high school I met a girl
who took all the stars that had ever been in my eyes
multiplied them by all the stars in the sky
and put them back in my eyes, only for her.

Now, three years later,
a ******
excommunicated addict
I am in love again.

He is an author and he writes novels.
He is a novelist.
He is a genius.
He told me:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.

And I have figured that one out.
Until I have devoured him,
until I understand every single one of his literary pieces
I may not die.
I may not.
Until then,
I may love no other.
I may not die.

You entice me.
With your lips
you
      e
          n
             t
                i
                  c
                     e
                           me.

               With your legs you
                  
                      e
                   c
                 i
               t
             n
         e
.me

With everything
you
       have
you make me lust.
With everything
you
       got
you make me yearn.

Y
e
  a
   r
    n
for something I cannot have.
L
u
  s
   t
for something I have not got.

"If any negative thought lingers, he let it vent.
Wrote this one with his ******* in wet cement. "*

I don't want to lose you
but I can't continue trying this hard.
I can't put forth the effort to maintain this,
when you give none.
I can't think of any more ways to say this
so I'll say it simple: I love you and I'm losing you.

No matter how well defined the border lines are
I'll walk all along, and cross the ocean
into a barren land of wasted emotion
from the best and the worst of intentions.

No matter how tightly the blinds are drawn
light will peek through and shed light
upon a bleak urban interior landscape
complete with cigarette butts, Vonnegut, and everything in between.

Nights in White Satin may be gone off the charts
but not from our hearts.
In this case, white satin is the plain, unmade bed belonging to my sister.
I thought I told you to stay away, yet you linger on the backside of my eyelids.

Constant blue lights
gently illuminate this bedroom, untouched by the night.
Be careful what you wish for because Jesus saves
but he'll also ******* over for the **** of it.

If someone wrote a book about me,
about my life,
it would be boring.
It would be the same thing everyday with occasional flare ups of happiness and love.
The ending would be good though.
The part where the main character kills himself, that will make the book.
Up until the final chapter it will be boring but you have to read it.
You have to understand.
You have to understand why the book must end.

I would say I've lost my touch but that implies that I had a touch.
I would say everything I now touch turns to rust but that would imply that it once turned to gold.
I would say I'm going crazy but that would imply that I was once sane.
I would say I still love you but that would imply that I once loved you.
I would say I wish I had a cigarette but I wish I had a cigarette.

I don't understand.
I don't understand.
I don't.

Why am I here?
Why am I typing?
Is it to solicit a response?
Is it a desperate plea?

I am falling and I will never be caught.
Not by ground, not by mitt, not by death.


I'm getting bad again.
I'm breaking bad.
I'm breaking ties.

Maybe a change would be nice.
Maybe I can cut all of my ties and form a new life.
It almost sounds appealing.
But *******, I've loved my friends for too long to cut them out.
But I've hated myself for longer.

~

This has happened before. Love fades.

I used to play with Army Men
until I learned what an Army meant.
Until I learned the evil they carried out,
following orders is no excuse.
Freedom is no excuse.
Security is no excuse.

The reasons are simple: hate, greed, ignorance, fear.

People forget that the English Settlers killed ten times more Native Americans than the amount of people killed during the September 11th Attacks.
They just forget.

They forget about the terrorist tactics our founding fathers employed to reach victory.
They forget about the terrorist tactics our leaders employ today to reach victory.
They just forget.

Whether it's scientifically proven or not,
I know it to be true;
the best cure for a hangover
is more *****.

A noise woke me up.
Stumbling through the empty house I
struggled to find it.
It was odd,
seemingly everywhere I went it got louder and louder;
this thumping, pulsing, rapturous noise.
Giving up,
I reached for the half full bottle (the deciding factor to a bottle being half full or half empty is not the attitude of the drinker but the contents contained in said bottle) of *****,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
and so I began this day as I had ended the last one.

In a glorious and raging state of mind I stumbled...
(no, I've already used that)
... I fell down the stairs and watched the sun as it climbed and climbed
and I'm not sure how long I lay sprawled on the wet November grass
but I know how long I thought of you,
and I know how long I've been thinking of you
and I've been thinking of you for days.