Sometimes I think about girls.
And I think about how they've hurt me and how I've hurt them.

Sometimes I get sad.
And I don't want to ever hold someone again.
I don't want to love.
More so, I don't want to hate.

There's this one girl.
I don't know these feelings I have for her.
She's cute.
She always says "Hi Nolan" and small talk ensues.
I think she's into me.
And I think I could ask her out on a date or something.

But then I think of where it could go.
We could have a ****** time and have it be awkward and not talk again.

We could have a good time and go on more dates and start getting all attached.
And then break up and hate each other.
Because no matter how much love I bring I'm always afraid of the hate my hears beats.

I don't believe it's possible to be with someone forever.
Eventually you'll get bored.
And angry.
And sad.

And she's so **** cute.
I want to love her.
I want to hold her when she's sad or happy or cold or scared or excited or in love.
I want to kiss the top of her forehead.
I want all of these things and I want them for an eternity.
oh well.

~

Please get out of my brain

~

I torture myself in many ways.

Your mother told you kissing me must be like kissing an ashtray.
You told her you'd rather kiss this ashtray
than the sweetest strawberries.

Why did you say that?

the easiest way to tell another of anxiety
is to simply say that it interrupts.

it interrupts your life,
gets in the way of love
and laughter.

Just like a well placed hyphen - anxiety interrupts

People are uncomfortable with truth.
There is truth in silence
and people are uncomfortable with silence.

When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease.
One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition.

One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt.

One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls.
One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad.
One should appear clean and well slept,
one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received.

If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin.
If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners.

If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought.

One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are.

One should be happy, but not too happy.

It's hard,
but I'll be able to accept it after a few more shots,
a couple more hits,
and maybe a line,
but as I am in a semi sober state
it is hard to believe.

Hard to believe that you chose him over me,
hard to believe you swoon around him,
and don't bat an eyelash at me.
It's hard to believe he's my best friend
and I'm letting him do this.

i
I have always loved you.
You're my best friend you big beautiful idiot, what do you expect?

ii
You remind of words written on fog on a mirror. You can be beautiful and ugly but you will always be fleeting.
You told me that i remind you of corn flowers,
and I never really told you much.

iii
You are forgiven and I hope you are well.

iv
You came into my life at a weird time and I came into yours at an even weirder time.
We're both actors, so we were pretty good at pretending.

v
I kissed you when I shouldn't have and your mother disapproved. We've both grown so much and I love you exponentially.
You're a combination of Audrey Horne,
and a desert flower
and I wanted to kiss you so bad by the creek last week but perhaps your mother would still disapprove.

vi
You were my green hair muse,
I have so much to say about you
and I'm embarrassed to say I miss you.

A night spent with beautiful people,
and beautiful decorations,
and less then beautiful music.

A night spent snorting ecstasy in a bathroom stall,
and dancing until I became lightheaded,
only pausing for a cigarette.

A night spent holding you close,
with the feel of your lips brushing upon my neck
(Oh! how I wished for them never to leave).

For being being high and
way too cool,
we're sentencing you to
an eternity in hell.*

Down here, they got nothing to sell,
and even if they did, sell it they would not.
I was banished, sent down here to rot,
got a dude shooting up,
staring at me with a lot of snot
dripping from his nose,
nobody is telling him where his little sister goes,
cause if they did, shoot it they would not,
he's the guy with the dope
and dope talks
(and nobody walks).
He gets what he wants when he wants it
and if you were to tell him his little sister
****** your **** for junk you bought from him,
brother I'm afraid you'd never smell roses again.

Not that you would,
there's a terrible lack of pretty things
just poetry, and rap songs to sing.
Knock on wood, cause you got what I don't,
smoke it while you can,
cause I will if you don't.

Oh ****,
I'm bad at rhyming,
please step outside while I prepare a hit
of something strong.
Boy its been too long
since I stuck that needle in my arm.
A ****** in need
is a ****** indeed,
and oh ****,
that's just plagiarism,
you'll let it slide, this ain't ******* journalism,
just keep your mouth shut and believe in my cynicism.
Watch out though, don't get overwhelmed by your egotism,
oh ****, that ain't fair
rhyming ism with ism
but boy, life ain't fair.

My father told me what I had to do,
you gotta think long and hard
about why the sky is blue.
Broken bottles produce glass shards,
all out of junk, better sniff some glue.
When I first started using nobody said it would be this hard,
hell nobody said anything at all. except for you.

Now I'm just desperate searching my vocabulary,
accidentally stuck the needle right through my capillary,
I want blood and money: My Life As A Teenage Mercenary.
Don't worry, they got the good **** down at the apothecary,
make you so high you can fly like a fairy.

I must be bored, nothing I'm saying makes any sense,
no please don't show my sister, she might call me dense,
she'll remove the shrouds, destroy all the pretense.
Robbing my moms purse, scrounging up a few cents.
Hell if I had any sense I'd stop writing now,
call God and return him his crown,
but he's uptown and I'm downtown,
a sad clown
a dad frown
a mad ballgown.

I have everything I could ask for.
I'm white, straight and I hail from a lower-middle class household.
So why do I lay in bed and wallow in self pity when everything I could ever ask for sits right in front of me.
I have enough money to buy all the drugs I need and if I run out I can steal my mothers medication and sell it (I've never been a fan of amphetamines.)
I have two or three girls who take their clothes off and kiss my chest without me asking them too,
and I have friends who pick me up whenever I fall down,
so why do I never stop whining?
Why can I never feel fulfilled?
Numerous pairs of lips feed mine owns lust.
Yellow powder finds its way into my nasal cavity,
and plenty of ***** rests cozily in my stomach,
and plenty of chances to better myself fly by,
so what am I looking for?

Someday,
I'll have peace.

I know I will,
this can't go on forever.

Lack of balance.

The scales are tipped,
but to who's favor,
I cannot tell.

The energy and love I put out
has been matched by you
for the better part of six years.
Six years is a long time for any sort of relationship,
but more so for the likes of ours.

After six years the energy and love I put out
are not being matched by you.
It started off gradually
but i was too ****** up to notice.
Too many drugs and drinks
will do that.
But after a word from you,
and help from a friend,
and a few failed attempts
I kicked the monkey off my back.
I banished the demon OPIATES,
can you say the same of your demon.

And then I noticed.
Like a teacher looking up from his computer,
I noticed you were truant.
And i asked you about it,
I confronted you about it
and you said,
yes, I have grown distant, but I'm going to fix that.

And oh god, I've tried and i've tried and i've tried to fix it
but you are unwillingly to put forth any effort
and so I give up.

I want to give up,
I want to be happy about new friends
and sobriety
and that girl you told me was too good for me that I've been talking to.
I want to be happy about these things
but I can't
because the last thing I think about before I fall asleep is you
and the first thing I think about when I wake up is you
and ******* it, I am ******* terrified of losing you
and you don't care.

Heat waves and the summer is tangible.
Lazy days
Lazy guitar
Lazy daisy.

You are a daisy,
not mine,
not anyone's.
You belong to sappy heat,
you belong to the Yuba River.

And perhaps we intersect for a reason.
Perhaps our paths cross on a cosmic scale.
And perhaps not.

Laying in the sun,
not a worry in the area,
still, you never met a cooler ***.

And the heat is tangible,
naturally so are your fingers.
You hands were sticky with sweat
and I really didn't mind, I mean it.

I would never lie,
not to you,
not to my mother,
not to god.

Well, mayhaps I would lie to god.
After all, the heat is tangible.

Today I walked into a used book store
looking for anything that could distract.

The air was cool,
the atmosphere serene.

I walked down the isles and looked at nothing in particular.
I found myself in the poetry section.

I looked up and saw cummings.
My favorite. our favorite

I pick it up and leaf through. Painful memories come flooding like blood into the syringe.
Make it stop.

I began walking towards the door when a familiar song comes on.
"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile."

I can't stand to be in this place any longer.
I can't stand to be in this ******* town with these stupid ***** and these stupid bookstores and these stupid vegans and these stupid ******* kids and these stupid cool kids and these stupid writers and these stupid stoners and skaters and singers and football players and drama kids and choir kids and band kids and these stupid ******* Ag kids.
I can't stand it.
I need to get it.
I need my strings to melt.
I need this towns grip on me to lighten up.
I need your grip on me to lighten up.

please, you gotta let me go
*You gotta let me go

~

However often Steely Dan says
all that I am thinking,
he never says
all that I need to say.

I guess that's why I'm putting this into writing.
I guess that's why I'm taking this from my heart,
which will die,
and putting it on paper,
which will die as well,
only much later.

I want to matter.
I want to relate this to you,
my friends,
in a way that is worth something.
In a manner that is in no way resembling
my usual upheaval
of mismatched,
poorly chosen words,
spoken in a drunken
and sobering
slur.

To You:
However often and warmly I think of you when the sun is out, my midnight thoughts of you are always cold, always confused, and always sickening. I'm truly sorry for this. It's always been me.


To The First:
You entered my mind at about the same time you entered my life,
which is uncasually unusual for matters such as these.
I believe this to be the first of many mistakes we made.


To The Last:
We've all been hurt.
We've all cried and
we've all hated the same person that we love.
But no one deserves to be whole more than you do.
No one deserves a friend more than you,
you,
the one named Robin.
I know not your life,
nor the story you wrote about,
on a desperately, obviously rainy day in March.
All the best to you.

A name
                A face
                              A memory
                                                 Or Two.
                                    No life
                  No story
No hope.

And what a slap in the face it is
to keep my father's old driver's license
tucked nicely into my cigarette pouch.
Because every son wants to slap his father's face
and also to be just like him.

Etched across my back,
each one about a fingers width apart,
and red, horizontal lines.
One set starts at the center
and spreads in either direction.
Another set starts in the same way,
yet spreads at an angle,
as though to make a triangle
with the ground,
if they were to continue.

Left by the nails on your fingers,
these marks will linger
for a while
and then fade.
Just as everything does.
Just as everything must.

I'm better.
Better than I was
two months ago,
a year ago.

I'm worse.
Worse than I was
two days ago,
a month ago.

I'm trying,
to stop using
people and substances.

Oh! the same old song:
Chorus:
People and substances x 4
First Verse:
Using until I've used all there is,
Trying until I've tried my best,
Using until I've used the remainder of this,
Trying until I've tried the rest.
Chorus
Second Verse:
Some days go slow
and some go fast.
So days are mellow
and some are brash.
Chorus
Drum break
Third Verse:
Using until there's nothing left
Trying hard, but it ain't my best
Stolen: Integrity!
Reward for information regarding theft.
Chorus
Repeat chorus with slowing tempo
and volume until song fades
into misshapen and misplaced drums.

Depression
epression
pression
ression
ession
ssion
sion
ion
on
n
­I'm turning into everything I promised myself I wouldn't be.
Everything I hate.
I'm losing all the values I've lived by.
All the values I've tried so hard to emulate.
I hate myself.
I hate this world.
I hate everyone in it.

I'm trying to be a better man.
The only person I have to prove it to is myself.
How about you?

Everything that I have is being taken from me.
The freedoms I once held dear are being stripped.
Everything a human being is entitled to is being stolen.
My happiness has been replaced with sadness.
Hatred.

The life that I had was so great.
It was filled with friends, food, and fulfillment.
I now have to struggle for all of these.
My friends are slowly becoming acquaintances.
The food is no longer filling and enjoyable.
My actions no longer make me feel good about myself.

Now I'm second guessing all the choices I make.

Their is a bright side though.
It shows through occasionally.
Looking into my sisters happy eyes.
Having a good times with my friends.
Doing the right thing because it's right.
No God is telling me to do these things.
No Bible is explaining why.

This is a good life.
I should be happy.
I'll add that to my list.

~

Shadows can be scarier than darkness.

The splitting of years was spent in a small room with a lovely group of nine people, surrounded by smoke and the sounds of the nineties.
Elena, with her laughter infused with gold.
Liam, with his thick dark curls.
Fritz, with his polite disregard.
Jonah, with his Iron Maiden shirt.
Kelly, with her eyes of nature.
Hannah, with quite understanding.
Erin, with her love of all things beautiful.
Dylan, with his smile of a deep purple.
Dennis, with his acid fried heart, still beating with love.

Beautiful people and beautiful dreams.
Here's to a beautiful year.

I actually thought about what I would do if this exact thing happened.
I thought about how I would be cool and pop a cigarette in my mouth all slick and say "Sup"

I would be a ******* lady killer. The hateful and sad feelings from before, during and after our relationship will be burned down with that cigarette.

We'll wonder what it's like to be inside a burning ember.
We'll talk about how we're turning into Holden Caulfield.

And about how Hemingway is God.
And cummings is the best.

We'll do all these things and everything will be perfect.
Our thoughts will be put to rest and our broken hearts will be mended.

We will finally go to sleep and all will be well.
There will be love in the valley and mountains and  the strings of our collective being.

Rant like a pig.
Go ahead, I want to hear it.
You cry wolf, really, I'm interested.
Cry like a wolf. Cry like the wolf who is always at fault.
Cry like the wolf who is alone and who is scared and who is not sacred at all.
Rant like the pig who is constantly threatened by wolves. Who cannot leave the watchful eye of the Sheppard.
Cry.
Cry some more.
Smoke a cigarette.
Smoke until your stomach is upset, please.
Smoke until your pack is all gone and your painful stomach is replaced by a piercing headache.

Be hypocritical. Trust me, you can.
Do exactly to me what you'd hate for me to do.
What you hated me for doing.
Treat others the way you want to be treated or else treat others the way you were treated; hypocritically.

Being as the clouds is a marvelous way to be.
So light, so free.
Way up in the air, without a single care.
They'll drop their rain when they **** well please.
And they'll skip over the mountain without bumping their knees.
The sun will shine through them, casting it's noble rays upon earth.
The sunsets will be of a golden shade: A beautiful, natural art.

Fluffy and soft.
Whit and clean.
Being as a cloud
is a majestic way to be.
Being as free and unwavering as a cloud
sounds alright to me.

He told me not to waste my breath.
You'll never be but second best.
Third best,
fourth best;
worse than the rest.

I'll cut off your right hand,
**** you to **** with the left.
Squeezing your **** 'till there's nothing left.

Hell yeah,
he's got swag  
he bought it from a man
who called him a ***.
In a little bag
he gave him so crack
But no! It slipped from his hands
down a storm drain
never to be seen again.

A war story is what he sold
"I spotted the ****** in a churches bell tower,
squeeze the trigger, one two, one two,
******* insurgents,
they never win,
****** to hell and all that's therein."

The devil would do anything for one last hit,
he lives in my veins, he don't give a ****.

He's a stranger, from out of town,
selling drugs to kids, dressed like a clown.
The cops chase him out but the damage is done,
but hell ******* yeah, the kids are having fun.

This isn't art,
this garbage is about poetic as the rez
I'm scrapin' from my pipe,
doing anything to get high.

The grass is greener on the other side,
you know it is,
my only question is with what they fertilize it with.
*******? GMO's? Something equally as destructive,
it's the truth, you know it is
*******, you say?
Bulltruth is what it is,
like it or not,
it is what it is.

"I guess I am doing a good job at biting my tongue."

If you only knew how much you were hurting me.
If only I could snap back with something equally as hurtful.

I wouldn't if I could.
It would be inappropriate.
Undeserved.
Regretted.

I'm sorry I've been so rude.
I'm sorry my cigarettes ran out,
I'm sorry I haven't been sleeping.
Plagued with nightmares of you.

I'm an *******.
But I will never apologize for that.
I will never apologize for who I am.
What I believe in.
What I do.

But most of all,
*I'm sorry

We always hear that life is a stage
but we were never prepared for the stages we would be thrown through.

I remember the before.
When we had never talked,
only noticed each other in the halls,
around town,
and at the theatre.

I remember the during.
When we'd purposefully get lost in the city we were both born in.
When I'd treat you to tea
and you'd to treat me to a kiss and sometimes a hundred more.

Now it's the after.
Thank God you're leaving town.
It will save me the embarrassment of those times I called with no response.
And it will save you the harassment of having to see me.

I've only talked to you once.
We were in the school library.
I was cutting out on Biology and you were working ******* finishing a Chemistry lab write up.
I noticed how beautiful you looked as you walked up to the Librarian's desk and asked for a tissue to blow your nose.
Your dark hair was pulled back and your tights wrapped perfectly around your legs and you lipstick was the perfect shade of red and your boots came a quarter of the way up your shin and I never felt so emotionally detached from the world around me as I did in that moment, watching you blow your nose.

As you walked passed I said in a hush only you could hear "Love is more thicker than forget; more thinner than recall; more seldom than a wave is wet; more frequent than to fail."

And you stopped there, in that moment. You did not turn around but simply said "It is most mad and moonly, and less it shall unbe; than all the sea; which only is deeper than the sea."

And in that moment I never felt so found. I never felt so infinite.
We were connected by the meaning of our recitals
as well as by the soles of our shoes.

And when something is so truly beautiful it is lost.
And it must never be found.
And so we have not spoken again.
Yet we know so much about the other.

And everyday I wake up,
take a swig from the big cup.
I know I gotta get ahold of myself,
understand that it's bad for my health
but you know,
you've been down here before,

and you got out,
put some money in your pocket
and decided you didn't owe me a cut.

Don't tell me it's too late
you know I can't wait.
I think it's best that you know
the depths are so far below,
yeah
and you know
nobody wants to go

until it's time to go.

I want you pale and naked,
hips thrusting towards mine.
I want you on top of me
my hands on your *******.

The sunlight shines,
and the sun does set.
All I want is you
playing with my hair.

The cold spot doesn't chill like it used to.
Now, it feels like stepping on broken glass.
Now, it feels like the weight of the word is in this place.
Now, it feels like I'll never be able to leave.

Before it was dazzling and it made me feel the blue.
Before, I could see myself.
Before, I knew who I was.
Before, it was lighthearted and fun.
Before, I knew I would never be able to leave.

Time goes slower now.
Seconds pass by at what used to be minutes.
Minutes on hours.
Hours on days.
Days on lifetimes.

The universe ceased to expand, the scientists say.
This act defies all laws we've taken for granted.
We know what is outside our universe, they say.
More universes.
Infinite amounts of universes.

In a different universe I could be the sun.
And in a different one I could be the ocean.
And in yet a different one I am the moon.
It's spectacular.

God doesn't interest in the way he used to.
The leaves all look similar.
The songs all sound the same.
The fingertips feel like needles.
The kisses bring plagues.

--Unfinished-- 10/19/12

Silly You.                                
                                   Hypocrite
                                      ypocrite
        ­                               pocrite
                                        ocrite
          ­                               crite
                                          rite
            ­                               ite
                                           te
                                           e

You're such a hypocrite.
I don't know if it's intentional.
Only that it's true.

Oh, please don't drink, it's so bad for you, please, get better, please please blahblahblahblaaa...
Oh, don't mind me, just gonna get **** faced
just gonna finish the bottle,
and maybe another.
Don't mind me.
I'm not judging.
Silly yo, don't think that.
It's my birthday, whatever.

Well **** that.
Hypocrite.

I'll drink.
I'll write.
I'll hurt.
I'll do these things sober too, just watch me.
except drinking of course.
ha-ha.

Please, I'm an adult, blahblah, don't drink, blahblah

I'm sorry for everything.
Except for the things I'm not.
Which is, coincidentally, everything.

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

The Boy with the Sunshine Face came back today.
He was never really missing, he just needed a break.
And in the few days he was gone I realized how much I love him.
How much I love his hands on my back
and his laugh in my ears.

God knows his parents were worried
and they don't know I could have told them
where he was staying.
But I missed his face just as much as they did.
And no one should be forced to be somewhere
if it's killing them.
Even if that place is home,
with those who love them.

But now he is back but I still haven't seen him.
Except for last night, in my dream.
He was sitting on a bench by the school,
but he was different. His face didn't
have that smile I have grown so accustomed to loving.
Hiss words didn't have the same ring to them.
And when I kissed his face he didn't kiss mine back.

This is all just some weird front my brain is putting up
because I'm sure he's the same he always has been,
just a little more tired.
Still,
I miss The Boy with the Sunshine Face.

If I had a cigarette
for every time a teacher, parent, or loved one told me I was worthless,
I'd have enough cigarettes
to clear my head.

And that's it,
that's all I need to do.
Maybe if I could clear my head and get some ******* sleep I could stop being so worthless.
Just give me a break, and something to distort reality and I'll be fine.

Friends have often asked me what's my drug of choice.
They say they've seen me ******, tweaking, drunk, numb, but they can't tell which I enjoy most.
My answer hasn't changed since I started using.
My answer simply remains: anything that gets me high.
Anything that allows me to think in a different way,
anything that mercifully allows me to not think is my drug of choice.

I'm sick, I have a disease, but I don't need your help.
I don't sleep or eat, but I don't need your help.

Feeding bad habbits with love,
and rotten tree stumps with alcohol mixed ***** and *****.

Gasp for air,
breathe in poison,
exhale C^02
and bad dreams.

******* with death
and disillusioned junkies desperate for one last hit.

Fall forward,
catch yourself,
repeat until you have
and reached your destination.

Breeding hope
and sadness until you're not sure what you're hoping for
and what you're sad about.

Sleep alone,
wake up alone,
and spend all day searching
for someone to be alone with.

People want to do something great.
They want to write novels and join the army
and cure cancer and raise a family.
But when all is said and done,
the greatest thing you could ever do
is volunteer at your local soup kitchen.

In a town full of good people
I have to be bad.
I have to smoke cigarettes behind the church during lunch.
But in a world full of bad people
I have to be good.
I have to carry to butts in my pocket and throw them in a dumpster.
I have to be bad.
I have to steal handles of ***** from Safeway.
I have to be good.
I have to recycle the bottles when I'm done.
I have to steal my fathers Vicodin.
I have to buy him coffee at least once a week.
I have to sleep during math class.
I have to stay up 'till 4, studying.
I have to be loud when I'm drunk.
I have to keep my mouth shut when I'm sober.
****, I forgot  which ones were good and which ones were bad.

My sister is a fantastic writer.
She started writing as a way to cope.
She misses our grandmother's house,
for quite some time that was all she could write about.
She wrote about the looming, gentle, green pines that swayed over the small pond and the way you could gaze at the water and see not only the pines but also sky, just as blue and white and occasionally yellow and orange and you could could see it just as clearly whether you looked down or up.

Now, she writes about God,
or god, (although I don't think she believes in a 'the God')
she writes about the cold mist from the bay that warms up by midday but there are no pine trees.


My grandma became sick.
She became very sick of mind,
although her heart has never failed,
her memory failed her and anxiety overcame her.
She couldn't live out on the ridge anymore.
She couldn't take care of those twelve acres and the horse and the donkey and the dogs and the very small cat named Po that only came down from the attic very rarely and only to eat. She couldn't take care of these things and herself and my mother and she couldn't have laid a bigger hand into molding my sister and me. Through many an ear yank and many a promise of the wooden spatula (a never kept) she forced and graced upon us respect; for the land and living beings like, love, for the land and living beings alike, and a humbleness before the beauty of the land and living things alike.


My grandmother now lives in a gated community. Her condition has stabilized through trial and error using psychoactive drugs. Her understanding is lower and her anxiety is much higher than when she lived on the ridge but the doctors don't want to make things worse with experimentation and my grandmother doesn't want to either.


My sister's words always bleed of the page and I can see the pond and the trees and our tan bodies and the dry red dirt, and I'm thankful she has this affinity. I'm glad she can play scenes from our childhood out as if from a movie.

The only thing left
in this mind of mine
is self destruction.

I know not how I strayed
so far from mother's teachings.
And I know not where I
shall end up.

I only know where I will find
my next fix at.
And I know how long
8 of these pills will last me.
(three days.)

I could place my finger
on this map
and tell you what country it is on.
Yet you could not point
at the crowd
and find one person who loves me.

Albert Camus
said that the only question that
truly matters
must be answered before
there can be discovery,
growth and love.
That question is whether or not to continue one's life.

Unlike the affects of vicodin and *****,
I know not the answer to this question.
And I suppose I will
find the answer,
or die trying.
Just as I did with the mixing
of my two favorite elixirs.
And what a lovely combination they have become.

a map scrawled in the dirt,
with a broken stick
held by a broken hand
controlled by a broken mind
being kept alive by a broken heart.

It's not beautiful
because it's broken
(stop romanticizing my primordial urges)
it's beautiful because it's the nature of it.

stop romanticizing my primordial urges.
I wanna hit and hurt and destroy and **** and **** and maim and desecrate and consummate end eradicate and emasculate and ******* and I wanna push you up against a wall and feel you on the inside and I wanna push her down a flight of stairs for making me feel the way I do for making my **** hard.

i want you to feel this

I'm getting better,
slowly, a day at a time.

I still think of you but not as often.
I remember the good times,
but they're always marked with
an aftertaste of longing.
Longing for what?

Friendship.


I can't listen to No Doubt
anymore without thinking of you.

I cried last night,
for the first time
since the day before.
I was thinking about the best thing to do
and i decided (as I have a hundred times before) that it's to give you space
and let you come back,
if that's what you want to do.
I cried because I don't want to lose you
but I don't want to push you away.

Be careful sharing your heart with me.
I fall in love with those who open up.
Like a levee breaking
my love with flood in to your heart.

It will be beautiful and it will be fierce
and the currents will be of a Biblical magnitude.
So please be careful;
you're far too pretty to hurt.

If I hold the blankets close to my body,
and close my eyes,
with enough imagination and yearning,
I can feel your hands on my body,
your lips on my neck,
and your legs intertwined with mine.

You left yesterday,
and I found one of your hairs on my pillow this morning.
It was longer than my arm.

I tangled my fingers in your hair
and I whispered in your ear.
Just cheese ball things.

I told you many things
they were almost all true
and they were all cheese.
I told you I'll see you again (that one was true)

Wear a seat belt wild girl,
there are people who care about you.
Sleep well wild girl,
no need to tell me to speak with you tomorrow.

I promised you it'd be OK.
"It" being everything.
I promised you I'd see you again,
and I don't plan on lying to you.
I told you I'd write you ten thousand poems, excuse the inflation but it is true.

((Unfinished))

The
worst
time to
have an
existential
crisis is when
you're home, broke
and out of cigarettes.
The smoke can still my
mind and it can clean my
soul. It's funny, the cleaner,
the more sober I get the dirtier
I feel. I think it's because
in these sober moments
I learn more about the
crystal I sniff into my
nose and I learn
more about
myself
and I
learn
more
about
the
world.

My upper body becomes uncomfortably hot.
My lower body doesn't seem to want to move.
My hands become sweaty and a bit shaky.
My eyes dart around, not content to rest in one place.
In my mind there are many memories of your touch.
There are many memories of your smile,
but there is only one memory of the last time I saw you.

It's been a few weeks.
And it'll be a few more,
before that lovely girl
comes knocking at my door.

I am a patient boy,
I'll wait and I'll wait and I'll wait
for you.

Rap ah tat tat,
and rap ah tat tat,
please tell me when
my baby will be back.

Tick ah tick tock
and tick ah tick tock,
I long for the day
when I don't dread the tick of a clock.