I don't wish for you, it would not be fair.
I don't wish for us to fall in love, you might not want that.
I don't wish for my own happiness, that would be vain.

I wish that I could write beautiful poems for you.
I wish that you would cry after reading them.
I wish that you would keep them folded up in your back pocket.

I don't wish that you will be happy forever, where would that leave me.
I don't wish for all the money in the world, I could not buy talent.
I don't wish for a cure for cancer, there would still be death.

I wish that I could make you happy when it's raining.
I wish that money would cease to exist solving a pretty amount of problems.
I wish for a cure for life.

I'm glad she's gone
and out of my life
but I don't regret what happened.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.

May 17th was the first day I wrote about you.
Many times since then have I written about you.
This will be the third time today I have written about you.

If all went according to script this would have been a deadpan comedy where the jokes on me, the main protagonist, because this is a low budget indie film and ha-ha it's funny because I don't get what I strive for during the two hours the audience watched and the 3 months the characters lived it.

I'm not sure what I'm doing yet within myself I hold supreme faith. I am the only master of my life, and I promise myself it will all work out. And I've been thinking about my doorbell...

I didn't call you back, and you didn't call me a second time. I don't understand what game we're playing, I'd rather be holding you. My actions are mine, and I know we were supposed to go dancing on Friday and I'm not sure why I blew you off, I'm overwhelmed and I got four hours of sleep yesterday afternoon and it isn't raining anymore.

Do it
Do it,
Do it.
Do it!

Driving back, I couldn't wait to get home.
Now I'm home,
smoked a couple cigarettes,
took a shower,
started a load of laundry
and it took me a minute to realize
all I really wanted was not to come home,
but to come home to you.

It's not the amount of love I show to you and prove to you that is overwhelming,
it's the lack of love and respect you show to me and the staggering amount of your ******* I put up with.
I believe you when you say you love me.
I've believed you when you said you love me for the best four years.
I believe when you say that we could never work out.
Why ruin a good thing?
After all, that is what we have: a good thing.
So why am I so bitter?

Why do I not allow myself to sleep at night?
Not allow myself to put out the cigarette or stop myself from lighting the next?
Why do I not stop myself from uncorking the bottle or chugging longingly.
Why do I allow myself to be so angry at the world and at myself.

I ******* hate everything.
myself.
you.
the world.
my parents.
my friends.
the ****** bands.
the good bands.

This constant state of nothingness is starting to weigh down on me so I fill it with the bottles.
I fill it with the cigarettes and the hatred.
You?
Me?
Why?
After all, what we have is a good thing.

Isn't it?

My heart beats at a standard pace.
Sitting here on my bed, nothing is real.
You're face crosses my mind and that standard pace becomes a rapid clip.

I wish you were here, so I could hold you close.
I wish you were here, so this aching would cease.
I wish you were here.

I pull this old blue hoodie over my head, tie up these frayed laces on these old boots and began a journey.
I step out the door, breath in the cold November air and smile.
I see your car parked in the lot next to my house.
I see you leaning on the hood, also smiling.

On the ride to the park the rain picks up.
Neither of us have an umbrella so we decide a cup of tea from the local cafe will be just as nice.
It really doesn't matter to me, I tell you, I'm here, right now, and so are you.

With your mouth
you allowed me to feel your love.

With your teeth
you left your mark upon my collarbone.

With our legs
we ran through the corridors.

With our hips
we became one, if only for a night.

With your lungs
you sang a song to me, never to be repeated.

With my ears
I listened attentively, never to miss a beat.

5 cigarettes left and 12 hours to go.
I can't imagine that I will make it
to the next time I see you
with a stable mind and heart.

Oh my God, I love you so much.
It's killing me, it really is.
The strings of your being are constantly interfering with my life.
I can't think of anything but you.
The sound of your voice on the phone is soft and sweet
and your laugh is richer than kings.

You are too ******* yourself and not critical enough of those around you.
You are a wallflower and I'm sure you understand.
The energy field that your love creates is overwhelming and I let it swarm over me.
I can feel it in my heart and my fingers.
I cannot feel you though.

You are distant and vague.
A figure that my loving self conscious emits to keep me occupied.
I think of you as I go to sleep and as I start each day.

Do you think of  me?
I'm sure sometimes you do but they are more important things.
Prepping for school,
not killing everyone,
living.
These things are hard but especially for you.

You don't have time for me but that's all I got for you.
We can share.
Look at us and look at them and look at the strings of our being softly caressing the loneliness that is living.
Why? do we do this?
Why? are we so afraid?
Why? do I feel this way?
Why? can't you see the way I do?
Why? do we continue to suffer?
Why are you here and why am I there and  why can't we be somewhere together?

You're cute
and you're beautiful, and while these may be mere words, they are true.

I want to hold you and squeeze you and kiss you forever. My favorite place is wrapped in your arms and my favorite plant is the one you gave to me and my favorite kisses are the ones you give me and I'm not sure why I'm saying this. Maybe it's because I haven't today, or maybe it's because I'm aware that I have an audience. I know you'll read it and I know Kota will read it and Liam will read it and so will Chloe and so will strangers in Florida and strangers across seas.

I want someone I've never met halfway across the globe to know how much you mean to me and how sweet your kisses taste.

I need to pick myself up
and brush the dirt off my jeans
before I fall for you.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm a mess,
and I can't be happy with you
until I can bear to be myself.

I cry by the creek
and it gurgles a reply.
I flick an ant into the water,
I want it to die.

The one I want to die
better him than me.
Today I want to live.
Today I am happy.

I hear the creek.
I find peace by the water.
I was born not a man
but a fisherman's daughter.

I listen to the trees,
for they have a lot to say.
I fall asleep by the creek;
an end to a lovely day.

According to an article you showed me,
cats believe that humans are just big, dumb, hairless
cats.

I like to be around you and more than that I like to hear you laugh.
I like these things so much,
that I don't need anything more.
We kissed because it was fun,
we flirt because it's fun
and we are friends because we are fun.

It's so simple
and so nice
and so easy
and so satisfying
and relaxing.

It's you and me,
it's a cheesy pickup line,
and it's good.

I can't even write about you anymore

Recently, I have fallen asleep desiring never to wake up.
Recently, I have been waking up desiring going back to sleep.
Recently, I have found myself thinking more and more of you.
Recently, I have discovered that I think less and less of her.
Recently, I have wondered what it would be like, to be with you.
Recently, I have dreamed of you and I of you and I of you and I.
Recently, I have not been as sad.
Recently, I have been happy.
Recently, you.
Recently, you.
Recently, you.
Recently.
You.

The higher I get the closer to God I become.
I can feel him, coursing through my veins.

I promised you I would get sober
but you left

I don't want
to keep running from my problems.
I want
to stop getting high every time I feel any form of
guilt
remorse
sadness
anger.

I want to stop whining
and I want to start doing.

I want to think about flowers
and French music
and I want to think about you
but I can't and I hate myself for that.

I hate that I created all my problems
and here you are,
the most lovely human being I've ever met
and you didn't do anything to deserve your problems
and I can't ******* help you with them.
I can't help you with them
because I get high anytime a negative doubt lingers
and I get drunk if I can't sleep
and I cry if I'm out of ***** or dope
and I really really like you and I only want whats best for you
and I want to do everything I can to make you happy.
I want to pick you ten thousand flowers,
all of which will pale in comparison to you,
and I want to write you ten thousand poems,
none of which will be as grand as yours,
and I want to give you ten thousand kisses,
because you deserve them
and ******* it,
I like kissing you.

Above I said that I can't, but I lied.
I can, I will, I am.
I'm getting better

It's you
It's a country rock tune
It's a bottle of codeine
It's the way the clouds shift.

I've been looking at blank walls recently.

I've been studying the imperfections in the plaster, looking for you, listening deeply for that ***** tonk rhythm, feeling with my hands for that orange bottle.

I drown myself in these things,
yet I am breathing.
I have broken water, I have filled my lungs and voluntarily I plunge again.

I know what I'm looking for in these blank walls but I'm not sure I'd recognize it if I saw it.

Alas, my heart goes on and I beg it to stop.
I'm terrified and I miss my mother, she's grown so distant.
I'm frozen to the marrow of my bones and I'm not sure who keeps turning the defrost off and I'm disgustingly afraid, I shake with fear and I don't know where I'm at, I don't know who I am, and I don't know where I'm going and I'm afraid, I'm so afraid.

27/38                                                                  
                                                                  stop.
                                                   please                    please
                                ­     just                                                        just
­                       stop                                                             ­                     stop
                                     just                                                        just
­                                                  please         ­            please
                                                          ­         stop.
Can't you see you're killing me?
Can't you see that I'm not doing anything?
That I'm being the nice guy?
Can't you?

Death seems closer than it ever has.
Just as the moon did in March 2011.
Just as my family felt before I used.

At the end of the day, when I'm all alone, I wonder who I am.
Where am I?
When I'm in my room.
These posters are boring.
These paintings make me sick.
These letters bring it all back home.
Go away, go home.
Be gone, evermore.

The sun is setting earlier than it did yesterday,
and you look nicer than you did yesterday,
and I think I love you more than I did yesterday,
and I'm having more doubts than I did yesterday.

I've been finding it terribly hard to write more than disillusioned rants and I've been finding it even more difficult to sit still with my thoughts.

I think about you a lot and it never fails to make me happy. Never. But I can't think about you all the time, and those moments late at night when I can't see the moon for the ceiling and I can't hear your voice for the time negative thoughts linger. And usually I let them vent, like a man professing his love by writing it in wet cement, I put thought to hand and pen to paper but now... I don't know.

I can write about you and God knows I do. God also knows I have not and hope not to run out of things to write about you. But there are other things in my mind that I wish to let out but I can't. There's a purple liquid slowly amassing to a sizeable resivior in the bottom left corner of my brain; I can feel it. It's where I store my doubts and anxieties but it's been dammed.

If you want people to like you write them a poem.
If they still don't like you, nothing you can do will change that.

It only takes four or five
of those little yellow pills
to make me wonder why I ever sobered up.

My thoughts aren't lingering
and piercing the inside of my skull
as they have been.
Maybe tonight, for the first time in four days I'll be able to sleep more
than three hours.
Maybe I won't wake up shivering
before having to run to the bathroom to lose whatever dinner I managed to eat.

It had been thirteen days since I swallowed, snorted, smoked, or drank
any form or derivative of opiates, and now it's been 45 minutes.

Immediately after I took half of what I had, I dumped the rest in the toilet,
contemplating purging my stomach of any narcotics.
I figured if I had made it this long without even feeling the urge to partake of that which is hidden in a gold lipstick case under my bed, that I could reward myself.
I dumped it down the toilet so I may not use it again tomorrow as the temptation will be stronger than it was an hour ago.

I'm sorry if you have read this far,
as it means very little to you,
but getting these words down,
getting my thoughts down
helps me understand them.

She walks with confidence.
She's the most beautiful girl here
and she knows it.

But she is lonely.
She has nobody to touch
and she yearns for it.

She is a writer.
Her pen graces paper
and she owns it.

There are so many things to say about her.
Her confidence, her beauty, her talent, her voice,
and I welcome it.

all of my dreams have been about kissing you
                                                                         or dying.
it's haunting to know that these two things are what i have been craving most.
even more haunting is the fact that i cannot have both,
                                                                                        i have to choose.
                                          theme
there has been a common             in my life:
                                                                       choices have been
                                                                                                    my downfall.

since i have had this terrifyingly awesome power of choice i have abused it.
i have used it for nothing but personal gain,
                                                                      personal harm.
once i learned of the ability i posses to harm
it has overwhelmed me.
when i cause another grief it haunts me,
                                                                pursues me to my dreams and beyond.

guilt is a motivating factor in my life.
not more so than love,
                            hate.
but it is still powerful.

                                  i am not able to function properly.
                                  i get drunk
                                  i pass out on the couch
                                  i fall asleep with cigarettes burning in my hands
                                  i break my own heart, but watch out
                                  i'll break yours too.

We will all die alone.
It is a simple fact of life.
Beings, human or not, die alone.
But I don't want to be alone, not even for an instant.
Not even for that one instant in which I die, in which I am gone.
I've never been alone, truly alone. Sure, I've had the house to myself.
But I had the phone, and I had the computer, and I had my books and the cat.

It's not death I'm scared of. I have years, and I don't believe that one just ends. There has to be something more. But that's for another day.
I'm not too scared of what comes after death, in all honesty.
Whatever shall happen to me shall happen and there is nothing I can do to change whatever it is.
If I became convinced of any specific deity's existence I would not pray to them. I would not change who I am, only to change the results that come from who I am.
I believe in personal growth.
I believe in the perfection of self.
I believe in meditation
and I believe in love.

If only,
this numbness
would surround my whole
body. If only I could bathe in
benzocaine. Although, I would
much rather have no reason to do so.

I'll write about you
for as long as I want.
Unlike these
drugs
I am powerless to
I can quit you.

And so I will write about you until you love me
and I will continue to write about you until you don't.
Because everything fades, and everything dies,
and just like the spring,
your love will fade,
if it blossoms at all.

I don't know what you're thinking
(if you're thinking)
but I want you to take a minute to rethink it
(or just think)

This doesn't have to turn to shouts
(it always did)

Red flags.
This has happened before.

Turn around,
don't smile when you see her,
stop smiling,
don't laugh when she jokes,
stop laughing,
don't fall in love,
stop falling in love.

Not only heartbeats,
thoughts,
and nights;
I wasted too many wishes on you.
Too much time.

I guess I forgot a stamp
because you never wrote me back.
And I guess you couldn't feel my passion
because you never loved me back.

The inevitable heat death of the Universe draws near;
don't bother making peace with your god, he will die too.

Her heartbeat
is playing a song.
jump! it says,
run!
*love!

The one constant in life is the opposite of it.
Death.
Lives come and lives go.
People are dying on the East coast right now
and people are being born on the West coast.

The one constant in the mind is the loss of it.
Insanity.
People find themselves and lose themselves.
People are being reborn on their journey's
and people are destroying themselves with their bottle's.

The one constant in love is the loss of it.
There is no word for it.
People create love out of thin air and destroy it just as quick.
People are falling in love with those around them
and those around them are tearing it down in the meanwhile.

The one constant in poetry is the lack of it.
Rants.
People spill their hearts or they spill their guts,
People are writing right now, as I am writing
and I'm also just talking to myself: Poetry.

stay calm
breathe in
breathe out.

do the dishes after dinner
and breakfast
but eat out for lunch.

a polish hot dog
and two lines of coke
will fill your stomach.

I never thought I was doing all that great,
I just knew I wasn't as bad as I had been
and I didn't fall to my knees and thank god
every day that I could sleep without taking a knife to my skin
and that I could wake up without my mother shouting from the next room.

I took it for granted and now it's hard to fall asleep without
licking blood off cold steal
and it's hard to get out of bed without
incessant harsh words.

I took it for granted and now I am not being held and now
I am not being held
and now I am not being held
and it's hard to breathe without being held.

So I use
people
and substances
and routines
and aimless walks .

It's hard to get on my knees and thank god for the sun when I don't want to ever see it.

I look into the mirror.
Into my Cold blue eyes.
Is there anything more?
Any longing? Desire?
The laughter is hallow, the light is dim.
There has got to be more than this.
What am I missing.

I place my hand on my chest.
Onto my Cold, beating heart.
Is there room for more?
Anything other than this constant Frost.
The love is shallow, the strings are frail.
There needs to be more than this.
Where (when) did I go wrong?

I hold onto her tightly.
Wrapped in my Cold, meaningless arms.
Where is the love?
Where is there anything but myself? My Chilling thoughts.
The friendships are weak, the love is withering.
There needs to be some way to fix this.
Why are we like this?

Death seems almost appealing.
What lies beyond is scary.
Maybe Hannah's right?
Perhaps there is a constant nothingness.
Maybe my mother is right?
Perhaps there is a place in Heaven for those who pray.
Or maybe there is Hell?
How bad could it be.
Oh yeah, I know.
I've been living there for the past year.

"After your dreams have all died and morning isn't mourning, what are you?"

Patience.
I'm getting better.
I am,
and the things around me will start to soon.

I just have to be patient.

"Give it 'till the summer," she said,
"things will get better."

It's hard not to believe her
when she smiles like she does,
and so I do.

You said you never wanted to save me,
but gasping for air
I swear that's what you tried to do.

I tried to hide the smile behind my lips
as your hand lost its grip on my own.
Falling, I covered my mouth
so as to stifle the laughter.

The sky is orange and smokey and I don't know why.
Where is this fire?
Who started it?
Why did they start it?
Was it an accident?
A stray cigarette?
An arsonist?
Does it really matter?
The only thing I am aware of is that there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

The Strings of my being and frail and have trouble knotting and I don't know why.
Where do they begin?
Where do they end?
Who knotted them?
And who keeps untying them?
Is it myself without my conscious approval?
God?
Or is it you?
Does it really matter?
The only thing I am aware of is that the Strings of my being are frail and have trouble knotting and there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

My life is crazy and sometimes I'm happy and other times I'm not and I don't know why.
Who is causing this to happy?
Why is this happening?
Who is tugging on the strings of my emotions and why the **** are they doing it?
I believe it is you but does it really matter?
The only thing that I am aware of is that my life is crazy and sometimes I'm happy and other times I'm not and the Strings of my being are frail and have trouble knotting and there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

I just don't know.
Why.

I'm destined to write country music.
My writings are more or less about girls and intoxication anyway.
So change drugs to beer, girls to honeys and throw in a truck, a dog, and lots of guns and you have it.

It wouldn't be so bad either, hell I could even live the lifestyle. Find a cute southern lady, have a faithful hunting dog  and live under the mountains.

I asked you if you would like me to stop writing about you.
You said no, you would just stop reading what I wrote.

Who else do I wish to read these words?
Even if I'm not writing about you,
I'm writing about you.
because you're here,
you're a part of me,
and I'm better because of that.

Stop. Please. Can't you see at all how this could hurt me?
Underneath this broken frame there is a beating heart. And you're not helping.
Rage is a very despicable feeling. I don't like it.
Very near talking. Spilling. Overloading. It almost feels right.
I** know not why these feelings persist. They are ghosts and I am going to exercise them.
Valiant efforts are useless. Hatred and sadness always win. Always.
And no amount of love I bring, I'm always afraid of the hate my heart brings.
Love is a myth. You will never feel it. Nor will I. Give up.

Everything about you makes me sick. I can't stand feeling this way.
Never did I think this would happen. These thoughts would come back. They were gone.
Deliver me from this darkness. I beg you. Bring me forth from the shadows.
Stop. Please. Can't you see at all how this could hurt me?

It's hard for me to believe the things you say.
It's hard for me to think of you
without a hint of bitterness
intruding upon the smell of jasmine
that you left to linger in my mind.

I wish things were simple;
like they used to be,
like they should be.

I wish I knew what complicated things
(I know what, I wish I knew why they complicated things)
so I could fix it.

I'm the same
and I can't help but feel that you've changed.
Changed as people do,
nothing wrong with that
(nothing wrong with that)
I just wish your changes didn't include
cutting me out of your life.

I'll be here,
waiting in my room for the phone to ring,
but I'm tired of leaving you voicemails
and I'm tired of waiting for a call,
and I'm tired of being tired.

I've been good,
my life has been good
and you've been gone
and it's hard for me to determine  
if I'm happier about that which has been going on
or sadder about you being gone.

Sure,
I'm sad you're gone,
but I'm happy you can be anywhere at all.
And sure,
I miss you,
but I'm happy your first breath of the day is no longer in this town.

Hemingway wasn't cutting it
soI cut three lines
and blew them in rapid succession.

I put on Vampire Weekend and jacked off
to a picture of you until my **** hurt.
It's night like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me wonder why I started using.
Not even high enough
to sleep,
I stumble around my room
as my ****** nose leaves stains on my carpet.

I try to keep my room clean
and I try to stay clean
and I try to use clean words
but it's nights like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me a ******* loser.

It's night like these
and it's words like yours'
and it's **** like Tommy's
and it's music like Ezra's
and it's loneliness like mine
when I want to not wake up in the morning.
If I ever fall asleep.

One missed call but no voicemail.
I would say we're playing phone tag but I can't shake the feeling that you only called so you can say you never gave up.

This isn't even poetry anymore but did I ever write poetry about you?

I wrote poetry about girls and the weather and sometimes both and I write angst filled strings of thought about you.

Call again, I'll hear the phone ring this time, I promise.

What a beautiful place
the thought of your face
allows me to roam.