I will open your mouth
and I will devore you.
Love will pour
out of each of your
pores
and you will drown in it.

You will be exhausted
and filled.
You will be distraught
and emancipated
your soul will lay
in the dirt.

Devoid
of anxiety
and surrounded
by creatures
summoning you,
you will lay
in the water
sputtering
and sloshing
and gasping for breath.

I will fill you
and I will heat you
and then just as the last
drop of human essence
drips from you,
I will consume you
and you will fuel me
as gas to a star.

I'm as lit as a Christmas tree,
tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."

tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,

and "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.

I would enjoy some chocolate milk. "
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,

The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.

but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,

Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,
and I'm saying I need it now"

and waste not, want.

I'm happy you enjoy drinking coffee and talking, because
I also enjoy talking and drinking coffee
and maybe we could do it together sometime? Tuesday, there is nothing I'd rather do than drink coffee and talk with you.

You're an intellectual,
you're a compassionate human being,
and your hair is to die for.

No, no, we're just getting coffee,
I'm not interested in anything more,
she's cute sure, but she would rip me to pieces. And besides, like I said last Thursday, I'm not interested in dating anyone. Why don't we just put on the Talking Heads and get high?

I dated a girl who emotionally abused me for months and when I finally split things off I cried everyday for a couple months.

I split things off with a girl who I loved with all my heart, I continue to believe I would cross oceans for her, yet I have not cried.

I'm an oxymoron, a lesson in irony.
I'm an upbeat jazz number, played in a minor chord.
I feel the world for those around me,
and only bitter disdain for myself.

I'm attractive, I've got a strong jaw line,
and a nose most guys would **** for.
I dress better than the guys I run with,
and my hair does exactly what I want it to.

I read French existentialist authors
and consider myself well versed in modern jazz.
I've got a steady job, and I've never been late once.

When I think about who I am,
and the jealousy I feel towards the happiness I am not providing you,
I get sick to my stomach.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and you appear to be so and I'm upset because I'm a jealous ***** of a man who has the emotional capacity of a child longing for his mother's teet.


I don't know why I feel the way I do but I'm out of *** and I have to deal with how I'm feeling and that will be a first.

I'm one pack of cigarettes away from being broke.
Color me broke.
Color me smoking.

Sneaking out at one in the morning.
Not because I need to.
No one to see
nothing to smoke.
Not trying to get caught and prove a point.
My only reason is lack of a better thing to do.
My only cause is to not have one.

I turn the *** (ever so slowly) until it creaks.
It always does.
I push the door (ever so quietly) until it squeaks.
It always does.
I step outside,
leave the door open,
look in window,
make sure the lights are out (they always are) and close the door.
Take one step, two steps,
three steps, four
onto the lawn.
Look up at the sky, to the stars.
See Old Mother shining bright (she always is) and look left.
See Old Father shining bright (he always is) and walk north.
Down the gravel driveway and onto the road.
Check for cars, there aren't any. (there never is)
Turn left and walk up the hill.
At the top there is a field.
Check for bums (never there)
Lie down.
Look at the stars some more.
Pull some grass from the ground and weave a little cross.
Turn it upside down and laugh.
Wait five minutes, then ten.
Eleven, twelve, and thirteen more
Hear a door and then a car start.
Watch as the headlights as they go the other way.
Recognize the license plate as my fathers.
He doesn't stop (he never does)
Get up and walk home.
Check the ashtray by the threashold for cigarettes. (always a half one)
Smoke it.
Go inside.
Check for note (there never is one)
Get in bed
wait for sleep (always hard)
Wake up.
Wait for phone call (there never is one)
Commence life.

I remember the moment I fell in love with you.

You were sitting on a red couch with a very drunk boy,
and you had a cigarette with red lipstick stains on the filter.
Like the couch and the lipstick, your cheeks were red.

I went up to you and looked at you.
Your eyes were dilated that night,
and even though I couldn't see it, the shade of blue in your eyes will always be my favorite.

Your hand grasped mine as you stood up,
and the grasped my neck as we fell back down;
A heap of good intentions turned sour by methamphetamine cut MDMA,
and kisses wet with passion and rain.

In the darkness you whispered yes to every question I asked,
but in the light of the following days
your eyes would not even chance upon mine,
and I've only heard your voice with the subtle undertones of contempt.

You laugh in the same way you did that night,
and I bet you look at the stars in the same way
but your eyes never seem to shine like them.

Don't let me get comfortable,
I could get used to this lifestyle.
Lazy days in the desert sun,
exciting nights with ****** fun.

Toss two hundred dollars on a dinner for 5,
It doesn't mean anything to them.
Don't miss the champagne divot stomp,
with a hat on your head, the heat is tangible.

Days spent with sand between your toes,
a Marlboro lite between your lips,
death on your mind,
all the while the dunes are full of life.

Dream of a girl who comes to you clothed
and leaves you with a guilty feeling of ******.
Don't forget your brandy.

Money is no object,
having enough things to buy is the problem
having people to buy things for is the problem.
****** is a problem.

****** is a problem,
but it seems to solve all other problems,
and when money means nothing,
****** is just a chance to feel.

Or not feel,
the desert doesn't care.
It is beautiful and deadly and will leave you searching for water, and the desert nights are unlike those of the mountains.
The mountains I'm a part of.
The mountains are forgiving, they are loving and caring and will not leave you searching for water, for it is a given.

I hope you find your Walden.
I hope it helps you discover
those things about you
that I do love.

The old man still visits and he tells himself he doesn't care and he figures that lying to oneself is something we never really grow out of.

Some days he knocks on the door and altogether realizes he does care, he cares so ******* much and his chest begins to hurt and he leaves before she can answer.

Other days he knocks on the door and lies to himself and waits for her to answer. She does and they exchange pleasantries and she invites him inside for tea. Most days he'll stay for a glass and leave without incident. Making his way home he remembers how much he cares and vomits all over the bulbs on the sidewalk.

Some days he cares entirely too much and stays for a second cup of tea, only to torture himself. These are the days he takes twice as many of the back pain pills before going to sleep.

He looks in the mirror in a state of sedated discomfort and wishes that he could not care, he wishes he could lose the ability to feel, he looks himself in the eye and says "you're an old man, caring is for the young, vomiting is for the young, searching for a rock you threw into a creek and feeling some way, anyway, is for the young."

He's not entirely sure what he wants, what he prays for (to nobody and nothing in particular) but he knows he wants and by god he knows he prays.

Thank you
for lighting up this room
just by entering.

And thank you
for talking to me;
I know it can be hard to do.

Thank you
for loving me
and all my faults.

Yes,
I've been thinking about you
and yes
I've been drinking
and yes
it is a lovely combination.

A talking dog and
a girl in flowers and
an old man in a suit and
a wolf with arrows in his eyes and
two bodies entwined and
a girl ascending stairs and
Why? and
the Empire State Building and
a young man smoking and
a house tilting over a cliff and
a lost paradise and
snow falling on lamps and
two teenagers floating in a pool and
waves crashing and
dilapidated house in Berkshires, MA and
the Devil and God and
boys in jackets and
young men singing and
fans blowing air on a bed and
nothing.

These are the things I see.
These are the things that haunt me.

Love songs come in many forms,
the heartfelt pleas of lovers and friends, the eyes of disappointed children,
the sound of doors slamming,  
a mothers anguished cries.

They're not always coddling
and comforting,
sometimes they're loud and confronting and startling, like trumpets.

It's only when self love comes home that I'm able to recognize them for what they were and from where they came. They came from love and they are songs.

Maybe someday you'll be lonely and understand how to be a friend.
Maybe you'll give me a call.
Maybe I'll pick up or maybe I'll have a new friend.

I don't want to write about you anymore
and maybe I'll stop.
It's not a question of what happens on my side but a question of what happens on yours.

The party, although there we only 9 of us, 12 at one point, was very loud.
People seemed to be forever in motion.
The bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring into the sky, only to crash into our moths.
The love swirled, the fun was endless, the memories will last, and the bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring.
The envy magnified, the arguments broke out, the memories will last, and the bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring.

I was down stairs watching a game of drunken pool when you came down, boyfriend in arm.
I was enjoying myself, laughing when the tip of the pool sticks missed the cue ball.
I laughed until I cried when Dylan knocked in the 8 ball, two shots after the break.
I laughed until I ****** when Fritz attempted to shoot from behind the back only to fall over.
Now, I've heard rumors that he, your boyfriend, treated you like ****. I didn't truly believe them; he was a nice guy.
But when I saw him with the pipe, smoking and smoking, ignoring your begs for him to stop, I got very made. Now, it might have been the Barcardi or it might have been my life for you, but I hated him.
He started to pack another bowl and you told him you would leave if he smoked it and he told you to get the **** out of his life then.
You looked like you were about to cry.
You continued to beg him, plead with him,but he just continued to tell you to shut up.
This was when I stood up and crossed the room. Tyler said "Nolan, you look really high."
I just nodded to her, my eyes intent on your boyfriend. I stood right in front of him and asked him what kind of man treats a girl that way.
He laughed and told me to shut up.
I looked at you and you told me to stop.
I looked at your boyfriend once more and began my walk towards the door.
Before I got their he said "God, your almost as much of a ***** as my girl."
I had enough.
I turned around, socked him in the mouth and preceded to have the **** kicked out of me.

I took my hands of my eyes and looked up from my day dream. He was smoking and you were trying to take the pipe from him.
God, how I hated him.
God, how hot I felt on that cold November night.
God, How I love you so.

I am a burning candle and I have burned out.
There is still a lot of wick left, though.
But I'm too drunk to find my lighter.
And who really gives a **** anyway.

Discovery can lead to hurt feelings.

This isn't the first time it's happened to me
but for some reason it hurts more than the other incidents.

It's how a baby must feel,
breathing in second hand smoke
from an unthoughtful,
yet seemingly loving,
father, to discover
that one who is held by me
is simultaneously enough
being held by another.

Color me selfish,
but when I hold a beautiful body
in my arms
and I kiss them for who they are
and I kiss them for their soul
I wish for the feeling to be mutual.
I wish for it to have meaning
and I wish for it to be
a singular couple.

This poem was birthed by two things:
My own distaste for confrontation
and you're lack of judgement
to fool around with him,
while fooling around with me.

And you're gone now,
you're opening a new chapter in your life,
but you get away with selfish ******* too much
and it's time you heard about it.



Hold on my dearest friend,
I'm not done yet.
I never knew you to be selfish,
but before I kissed you,
I wish you would have stopped me
and told me you were being kissed by another.

I guess that's all I really want to say.
Although it may not be all that should be said,
and it may be more than what's right.

Blue skies
and not a cloud in sight.

and whisperings reach far,
mocked goodbyes
and the scent of pine.

connect
with nature,
disconnect from your heart.
we come from dust and to dust we return.

oh! did you skin your knees?
no? just one?
that's OK, brush it off,
return to dust.

lying beside a fallen tree,
flowers grow from your mouth,
your brain; the perfect nutrient
for a sappling.
return to dust.

feel the dirt in your fingers,
feel the sun on your face,
feel the wind through your shirt,
return to dust.

no rain for California,
no relief from the relentless,
we owe gratitude to the dinosaurs
in this age of gasoline.
return to dust;
fuel the next generation's gasoline driven engines,
return to dust.

Oh you're face,
oh so full of beauty and so full of grace,
and oh how i hate your graceful ******* face.

I once heard a man say
If i don't go to hell when i die then i might go to heaven,
but probably not
and it has always stuck with me.

And i have made it a habit of mine to not capitalize my i's.
Because really, what's so important about me that i should be capitalized?
And what's so important about God that "He" may be capitalized?
And what's so important about Jesus that he should have a book written about him?
It's not like Jesus even had a biological father, anyway.

And why are we here?
And why does Santa live in the North Pole?
It's so inconvenient.
Why would the man who gives toys to all the kids in the world live in one of the few places on Earth that has no kids?

The word that really should be capitalized is Earth.
Earth is everything.
And Stars should be capitalized as well.
After all, we are all made of Stars.

And just one final thought, before i click save poem and shot my laptop and try to get some sleep,
why do people say The Universe?
As if they aren't more.
Why does ours get to be called "The" Universe with a capitalized T and U?
And one final thought (I promise this is the final thought) what's so important about capitalizing anyway?

Although my eyes were on the movie screen I could not help but watch you.
I noticed every shift of position, every tap of your foot, every blink in your eyes, and every licking of your lips.
I noticed when your mouth curled into a smile and when your hands clutched your shirt.

Although my body was occupied drinking half bitter coffee my mind was transposed onto the image of us I had swiftly conjured up in my own head.
    
Although
my bed will only have me in it tonight, my fingers will be running through your hair and down your spine. My legs will intertwined with yours and our hearts shall beat in time to the flowing of a poem.

Two Lucky Strikes. One
for now and one for the ear.
Can not get enough.

We had a list of movies we were going to watch together.
Ranging from The Iron Giant to The Princess bride
and all the way back to James and the Giant Peach,
but we only watched three movies together,
two of which weren't on our list.

You have your permit to study abroad,
and I have six cigarettes left in my pack.

God, how I hate the stars
and how these blank walls drive me insane.

Unlock the door, I
know not life, yet do please
lock the door: **** me.

I'm not blaming you.
Please don't let it come across as that.

Today I saw a picture of you that a friend posted.
You were at the river and you looked beautiful.
You told me to forget about you.
I did.
For about 3 hours.
And they were nice.
But then I saw that photo
and it drove me crazy.
I used to have you.
You used to be mine.

What I really need to forget is how much I love you.
All the good times we had.
All the love we made.
I need to forget it.

It's not your fault all of this happened, really.
I don't know who or what is at fault and I honestly don't care.

I just want to know why.
We were so good.
We were so happy.
We were so in love.
Now we hate each other.
You hate me.
And I hate you.

I'm not trying to blame you so please don't let it come across that way.
Please.

I want you to forget about me and be happy. Like you were today, if that picture is any indication.
So please
forget about me,
move on,
and be happy.

Nothing is more gratifying,
than my friends talking
about you and me.

The truths of you and me
and the predictions
and the destination.

I went to a wedding tonight.
My mother was the Maid of Honor
and I was the drunken teenager.

My mother's best friend of many years
was marrying her best friend of a few
and I took advantage of the open bar.

My sister brought a blackberry pie
my mother a speech
and I got to hear about how much I reminded everyone of my father.

On the day of worship the Temple filled.
It had been three years since the Messiah left, and nobody had forgotten.

The Priests of Tek dawned their red robes
and Father John Misty took his place at the altar, his heart heavy yet full of chagrin.

He clears his throat,
my fellow children of yonder Year,
my sisters of Sand,
my brothers of Dust,
my lovers of Greed,
here now what I say,
for I speaketh not.

for now speaks The Shrike,
for now speaks The Lord of Atonement,
your God of Pain,
your mystifying Excellence of Death.

Father Misty reached into his black robe and drew forth a small child.
What life may have been left in the infant was destroyed when Father John Misty stuck the unmoving body onto the red spike protruding from the altar, the spike entering the body through the ****, and reaching an inch from the soft skull.

Father John Misty's voice took on a lower town, yet softer, not forgiving, yet all knowing.

This child has a name.
This child is Jesus Christ.
This child will grow as if alive.
And before the rough congregations eyes the child began to grow on the spire. The limbs first lengthened, than filled out. The child's chest expanded and the head grew bigger. Father Misty then hoisted him off of the spire, and set him, bleeding, before the congregation. The body began to shift, jerky movements before the skin appeared to bubble. A low gutteral sound began to emanate from now full grown man. He lifted his torso and head up and looked at each member of The Temple of Ten individually.

He spoke

I am your savior,
I am unfruitful death,
I am unwarranted pain,
I am money being cheated from the desperate man,
I am the brains taken from a lobotomite,
I am the destruction of a hurricane,
I am as dead as the gasoline you **** for,
I am as dead as you are.

I am Jesus Christ,
this is not the first time you've seen me,
this will not be the last.
You are allowed to die now.

And they did.

Just  by the method in which you breath
you create a sort of paradise for me to live in.
You're just my kind of man,
you're a stand up kind of guy.
Now yell at me until my eyes bleed
and stare at me until my ears pop.

Breath life into this breathless song
and breed the love until it is of pure blood.
God knows I'm bad with habits.
They pile up and I can't properly feed them.
So try to be cool.

It's funny how last Sunday, I had a full pack of cigarettes.
Now, I have a nothing but the entire Joyce Manor discography .
And a horrendous headache.

I'm the only one who could ever have any fun
but that was only when I was with you.

So be cool.

I am consistently amazed with my ability to hurt.
The ones I hurt are the ones I hold dearest.
The ones I hurt don't deserve it.

My hands are rough and scarred, they are flawed.
My hands can create and they can ****.
My hands have created and they have loved and they have taken what doesn't belong to them and hurt those who trust them most. And they are controlled by my mind.

I had been sober for three days
and I had not seen you for three days
but tonight I took
five times the recommended dose of hydrocodene (they always were my favorite)
and I looked at old pictures of you for three hours (you always were my favorite)

I am not worthy of being hers, receiving her love, being held in her arms.

Is a believer worthy or his god's love?
Are you worthy of Jesus's love?

We as human beings have tried to capture what we believe in, what we're most passionate about, through art.

I will try to describe to you my beliefs.
I will try to describe to you my love.

Her ******* could be compared to the most delicious fruit, eaten on a summer day.

Her love is that of no other. It is as powerful as an endless rain, as gentle as a lilac.

Her voice rings true in my ear. There is beauty in truth and her words are a scripture to be worshipped.

Her touch is softer than a cloud in heaven,
yet firm.

Her strength is seldom flexed but when needed she could move a mountain will force of will.

She is love, she is the essence, she fuels desire and stars equally.

She is kindness, she is forgiveness, she is a blessing to me and every other living creature that encounters her.

I am an unworthy servant, I will wash her feet a thousand times.

She is the sun and the moon.

"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,
*I'm sorry

his heart poured out of his mouth,
oozing and beating it bounced off his guitar and into the crowd.

blood sprayed from every orifice,
it was in our eyes,
it was soaking our shirts,
it made its way into our hearts.

from one heart to another.

love songs fit for a queen and young jewish girl alike, music transcends.

hail slowed us,
and only two were fed before.
but we made it.
we made it through high school,
wet made it through hard times,
and we made it reno.

the love that was given to us from the mouths of trumpets,
love that was sliced open upon a saw,
heart beats that pounded from a drum,
we returned.
we returned to the stage that which was given to us ten fold.
we spewed it from our mouths, we spewed it from every pore on our legs and arms.

we drowned in love,
we drowned in red, gushing love

and we loved it.

Everybody wants to be better.
They want to be a better lover for their lover.
They want to be a better person for their loved ones.
They want to be a better teacher for their students,
and leader for their followers.

I want a few things,
for you to smile
and laugh
and not worry
and love yourself.

I want to be a better writer,
for the sake of my writing.
For those reading it,
but mainly for myself,
I want to write better.

For those around me I want
to be a better friend,
brother,
uncle,
only son,
but most of all,
I want to be a better stranger.
I want you to give me a smile when I give you one.

~~

*It's like that spider you see on your nightstand as you go to turn off the light.
Every itch and scratch, is always that spider, for the rest of the night.
So it is for every kiss I receive. For everyone I give back is just pretense.
It's the touch of your lips on mine while your presence is absent.

I had a dream about you last night and that's something I never thought would happen.

We were sitting on a couch or agaisnt a wall and there was a blanket over us. You intertwined your legs with mine and buried your face in my neck when I put my around you.

Your skin was warm, as I'd imagine it would be.

This dream unsettles me, in a way.
We would never have worked.
I liked you, I liked you a lot and I think you liked me too.
It's a good thing you told me not to kiss you,
I would have fallen for you and I would have hurt you.
I would have hurt you with my inconsistencies and my inadequacies,
and you don't deserve that.
I would have hurt you with my drugs and my unhealthy diet and the only outcome of our relationship would have been pain for you and warm skin and soft words for me.


You're a wonderful human being,
I look up to you
and I'm happy you found someone to be enamored with. Someone who won't hurt you with drugs and unhealthy diets. Someone who will hurt you with soft words and warm skin

There is a quite town
in the quite state of Vermont.

Not much happens there,
but it is the place to be.
The place to think
and the place to breathe.

All I want rests there,
while all I need to get
away from lives here.

In the summer, the sun shines
and in the winter, snow falls.
Which is just like it is here.
But, it is the 2nd least populated state,
which gives me less of a chance
of running into you.

****.

Pardon my brute choice of English
but ****.

I'm slipping again.
I'm sinking.

I was good.
Believe me, I was.
I promise you, I was.

But I don't feel good anymore.
This doesn't feel good anymore.
I don't want to do this anymore.

Caught in a tug-a-war with the rope wrapped around my head.
Depression holds one end,
and Happiness the other
but tonight,
I swear to God
Depression is winning.

All I know is that I sure as hell am not.

He's running
a circus
casino.

Open to the ages,
smoke at your leisure.

"You can't have a circus without a tent!"
Watch him,
he got high without dope.
He killed god without faith,
and did apathetically,
because his mom wouldn't have liked it.

He throws up in the sink
because his girl is throwing up
in the toilet.

He knows he shouldn't be here long,
but *******, the dope is strong
and *******, he has nowhere else to go.

You tell me it's all good.
I love you and that's good.
We're friends.
You love me and that's good.
We're friends.

He treats you badly.
But Jesus Christ, so do I.
I'm writing poetry about you and I feel guilty.

You have a bad habit of dating guys who treat you bad.
I could go down the list and can do it well.
I've treated you with nothing but love.

You said to me that I tell you you're pretty more than he does.
That he never does.
And I rarely do.

He's a nice guy and I like him.
But where is he going?
But where am I going?

I'm sorry but I'm not sorry.
Am I violating some kind of friendship barrier by speaking my mind?
Am I breaking some unwritten rule?

Well I hope not.
I'd hate to lose you.
After all, you're all I got.
*And I love you and it's all good

He stood with his hands in his pockets,
J-Crew haircut perfectly resting atop his head.
He stood with his hands in his pockets making sure it was still there.

He could feel it, which reassured him but until he was rid of it he could not be entirely sure.
Sure of himself, sure of his love,
sure that life was good and that he would make it.

He loved this thing but it was not his love.

And so he stood, waiting for the boy.

The boy came.
He came like lightning with no thunder; tremendous at first, but increasingly lackluster the closer he came.

He motioned to the boy and the boy increased his pace.

From one pocket to another the thing was exchanged.

He finally breathed once the boy was gone.
For the first time in three years he breathed.

He got in his car.
On the highway he felt an odd sort of peace.
An endless stream of cars passed him, yet none followed and none were in front of him, they were all entering, he was leaving,
for good.

/~~\
fakest of the fakes.
tell me a story.
about reality
and unreality.
\~~/

It's a riddle, Hazel Grace,
and nobody gives a ****.

How Long is a Chinese man
and I came home to find my mother passed out
on the kitchen floor.

An empty bottle of Jack hides in plain sight,
so I steal money from her purse to buy
pleasure and delusional sequences
and I can't seem to think about anything but you.

This isn't romantic,
this is as disgusting and ****** as the scars on my wrists,
this is as twisted and cruel as the decomposing corpse
of my neighbor's cat
in the parking lot across the street.

Don't touch me,
please,
I'll start to like you
and then I'll kiss you
and then I'll start to love you
and then you'll ****** me and make my hands shake.

I want you to write about me,
I want it to be blunt
and truthful
and I want it to hurt.
I want it to leave me gasping for breath
and I want to remember it
when I'm ******* that girl who ****** your ex-boyfriend.

Red roses
and orange poppies.

I see these flowers
growing rampantly throughout the back yard
and I want to pick every single one of them for you.

I wish Jesus would talk to me like he does others.
I wish he could tell me how he fought boredom those three days.
If I had read the Bible more than once I would know he spent them in Hell.
And if Bob Dylan can make young girls swoon simply by saying "You're the prettiest **** girl I've ever seen" then why can't I by telling one she looks pretty everyday.
Maybe if I added guitar and harmonica to it, it would work.
But I can only play three chords on my guitar and I can barely play 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' with my harmonica  but it's a start.

I walked through a long, dark, and wet cave with some friends early today.
******, I stumbled through the cave, falling  over only once, at the end.
On the other side of the mountain, the cave lead out.
Seeing how it did eventually lead out, I guess it's a tunnel.
On the other side of the mountain, the tunnel lead out.
Opening up to the river and the sun.
Letting the current lead us downstream we met two nice young ladies.
One giggled at me when I introduced myself.
And I'm not sure if she thought I was cute or if she could tell how high I was.
Either way, it was nice to hear her giggle.

And Mark, John and Luke and all the other prophets are gone,
and I try not to lie,
so let me tell you about Jesus.

I can feel it.
Falling into old habits.

I don't know how to feel.
I can actually feel the depression.
I can feel the self hate and the angst.
I can feel it all coming back.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I might just as soon be in hell
than be here.
than be me.

I once heard that "One perfect night's not enough"
and it's really ******* coming true.
It will never be enough
I will never be enough
this will never be enough.

I can feel it.
I can feel the depression pooling behind my eyeballs.
Maybe a bottle of brandy will chase it away.
Or maybe a few pills will cover it up.
Or maybe it will stay there forever
until mixed with a pool of blood
it seeps through the floorboards.

I moved my bed today
to another corner of
the room and as it went
a small business card
was revealed and
written on it was
"Nolan Fillman has an appointment with
Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.,
Tues, 11-22-11 at 5:00 P.M."
And I remembered what I did that day.
I talked to Eric about my life
about how I wanted to **** myself
and about how my grades were
slipping and about how alcohol
tasted better when I was drunk and
about how I hated myself.
He told me that he was my friend.
And that I could call him
instead of killing myself
or getting drunk.

And later that night I did.
When my father yelled at
me about my
grades
I called Eric and told him I felt
like drinking and
that I hated my father.
He talked to me.
I can't remember about what.
I think it was about a trip
he took to
Spain the
summer before.
He and his wife had spent two weeks there
and they ate good food
and met good people.
I slept well that night.

And I want to call Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W. right now.
I want to call him and have him tell me about Spain.
His number is written on the card right under where
it says TELEPHONE.
And I remember where his office is.
On Spring Street, Suite C2.

But I have to give 24 hours notice to avoid a late cancellation fee.
And it's been eleven months.

The star doesn't shine
(no candle is inside)
The wind doesn't blow
(no switch has been flipped)
The words mean nothing
(no book has been opened)
The bed isn't made
(no person slept there)
The heart doesn't long
(no heart beats)
The phone doesn't ring
(no one questions)

You take things day by day,
which is a marvelous way to love.

I envy you and the clarity you see the world with.
I as well, take things day by day,
only I am one day behind.
Still lurking on the happenings of yesterday,
the kisses given and love spent.

I'll go to bed tonight thinking about the girl I was kissing yesterday,
not the one I will kiss today.

God loves all of His children,
and I'm sure He will take special care
in bringing His child that you love home
from a war he has no business fighting.
he picks up his rifle everyday
because our country called upon him to do so.
Which is a good cause.

While he's there and you're here, you'll take things day by day.
The days in which you talk to him are great days.

The days in which you do not are merely good days.
And that is how you live.
Everyday is good and yet some are better.
Everyday for me is okay and yet some are more okay.
or less okay, depending on the state
of the weather
and the weather of one's kisses.

I've never seen the sunrise as beautiful as the one I watched rise over you.
You had fallen asleep.
You had told me to wake you up if you did, you really wanted to see it.
But you're just so **** cute when you sleep.
The suns first rays shown through your golden hair, refracting the light into a beautiful spectrum of colors.
I leaned back on our blankets and sat up. Criss cross apple sauce, I took a pack of Luckies from my coat pocket. We had smooshed them at some point in our late night adventures but they were still intact.
With a unlit cigarette in between my lips which had grown so accustumed to kissing yours I looked at you. You were lying on your side, facing me with your back to the sun. The dew on the grass was surrounding our mound of blankets much like heart break had been circling our love; Threatening to precede but not truly troublesome.

The smoke curls towards the sky.
At a different point in time our bodies curled together.
But, that was, indeed, a different point in time.
And trembling on  the remembrance of the past is silly.

As I was saying, before the past rushed in like a wave,
A wave that crashes over the sea barriers,
and sweeps away the fleeing tourists,
that the smoke curls towards the sky.

It slowly diffuses into the foggy, white air.
Diffuses isn't the correct word though.
We are not talking about liquids moving from
an are of high concentration to one of low concentration.

As I was saying, before scientific vocabulary interrupted me
just as the attacks on towers interrupted to 2001
Major League Baseball Season, the smoke slowly crept
up into the sky, into the wet November air.

As it combines itself with the fog, just as we
combined our hearts through our hands in the hot July
dog days. Although the dog days really weren't
as bad as they have been in previous years.

Anyway, as I was saying, before remembrance of old loves
snuck into my mind, much as the thought of you does
in History, while I'm trying to learn about the French invasion
of Russia. Or the **** (Or the Roman) invasion of Russia.

Oh, **** it. This is pointless.
I'll never get anywhere with this ******* smoke
curling to the ******* sky.
So, **** it. I'll just watch the smoke curl
and be content.

You'll occupy my bed,
for a day or two,
regardless of whether or not
I am in it.
//
Then you'll leave.
For a few days,
a week,
a few weeks.
//
While you're gone
the coffee will still be made,
the showers will still be taken,
and bed time stories will still be read.
//
However,
my body will shiver
without your heat,
and I'll go to bed earlier,
without your heat.
//
I may not play my guitar,
and I may not memorize my lines
while you're present.
But God ******, you're present.
//
//
The sun shines
and it will continue to shine
and the clocks tick
and they will continue to tick
and my love yearns
and it will someday cease yearning.
Cease burning.
Cease.
/
Just as your presence has
ceased.

Today, I had an urge to tell you that I will write a poem about you.
I told you and you embraced me. I held you tight, careful to not get my burning cigarette in your hair.

You make me happy, which is something I haven't been able to say to anybody in a long time.
And it's constant, it's everlasting. It's beautiful.
I'll giggle and I feel like I'm high.
I am high, but I have not smoked.
Yeah, that's corny and I do not give a single care.
But I give two cares about you.
And I give three cares about holding your hand, not squeezing it too hard.
And I give four cares about holding your body close to mine.
And I give five cares about kissing you.
And I give six cares about us.
And I give seven cares about your hair, not lighting it on fire, or touching it too much.
And I give eight cares about nothing. I'm just not capable.
But if I could, I think they would be about you.