I can be alone.
I spent two years perfecting the art,
and I may spend some time practicing it.

I just hope someday the phone will ring,
and that the caller is happy and healthy
and whole.

What's one more pill to a man who's taken thousands?
It depends;
if you're running out and you drop one under the fridge, it's enough to move the fridge.
If you've taken eight but can't seem to fall asleep one might just do the trick.
If you're trying to sober up one might mean starting the cycle again.

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.

I guess the reason I text you drunk at 3 in the morning is because I have so many things to say to you and I don't have the courage to say them without the aid of 151 Proof Everclear grain alcohol.

And the boy I was sharing the ***** with didn't mind me talking about you.
The Boy with the Sunshine face didn't mind hearing all about that one time you and I danced.
He didn't mind hearing about the one time you kissed me
and he didn't mind me texting you.

In the morning I laughed it off unlike my hangover.
Just like the day before,
the first thing I reached for was my pipe
and after that it was my phone.
And at 11:30 in the morning I read the text you had sent at 9 the same morning.

I guess all I really want is you.
And that's dumb to say
because I want a job
and a ranch
and maybe a dime bag.
But out of all these things I want to hold you most.
And I want to kiss your face
and touch your waists.

As much fun as I had receiving this hickey
it would be nice to have one from you.

To the Girl who Gave Me This Hickey:
Thank you,
it was fun.

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.

Mistakes are something we are forced to live with.
More so than scars or badges of honor.

And that's a good thing. As long as we live with our mistakes, we won't repeat them.

But does that matter to those trespassed against? To those the mistakes were committed unto? No. And it shouldn't, the mistake is what matters. And the one in the wrong isn't the only one forced to live with.

Mistakes often come about from selfishness, and selfishness serves no one, abides by no biddings.
As it shouldn't.

Forgiveness is a hard fought battle for humans. Forgiveness for yourself, lovers, friends and enemies. They're all hard to come by and must be striven for.

The ache that's been lingering between my eyeballs the past twenty four hours is constant and stabbing. That's where I'm keeping my mistakes. Somewhere that will never be out of site or mind.
This mistake is large and so my whole body aches. No, reader, don't say you're sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for and I deserve the pain I feel. I deserve the back of my eyelids swimming with images and my ear drums ringing with a single sentence and I want to apologize every time i hear those words. Those words are for you and for me and I will keep them and they will make my body stimulated and tense until I have forgiven myself.  
I don't want to forgive myself. I don't deserve it, just as you didn't deserve to be the receiver of my mistakes.

I promised myself I wouldn't write this.
My will power is week and
I don't know, I have a thousand more things to say but they only matter to me and so I shall keep them.
I hope for three things;
The first: you're happiness and well being
The second: you're friendship.
The third is selfish and so I shall keep it to myself.

There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

I want to rip apart my flesh,
burn myself until no pieces are left.

I want to pull all my hair at
and shove it down my throat
so I can finally get some sleep.

I want to die
and I want to sleep forever
and I want to not hurt
or be hurt
or hurt
or be hurt.

I want to bury my face in the ground
so I can never say evil things again.
I want to **** everybody around me
so I will never feel jealous again.

I want to drown the ******* stars
so no one will ever look at them again.

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'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

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.

I think I'm better.
At many things;
at being a drug user.
Hold up, you're saying, a better drug user?
How could you be better at using drugs?
Isn't the point for addicts to stop using?
Isn't that what makes them better?
Maybe.

I only buy my **** at the lowest of prices,
yet I always make sure it's good quality,
I won't buy it again if it's not.
//
I never use two days in a row,
or at least I try not to.
I don't use like I did anyway.
****, I hardly remember this last summer,
what with all the hydrocodone,
methamphetamine cut MDMA,
***, and alcohol.
I don't think I was sober for more than two days.

But it's not like that anymore.
I don't get high on days I work,
I don't get ****** at school,
I don't drink on weekdays,
I don't pop Molly anymore.

I'm a better drug user.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've begun to question the very purpose of my existence.
Which is really just a fancy way of saying ''I've been reading too much Albert Camus.''

The only way to enjoy one's life is to accept the Absurd.
To accept that life has no meaning except for the meaning I give it.
No purpose other than the purpose I wish it to have.  
Belief in God is absurd because there is no way to verify his existence.
Belief in the absence of God is absurd because there is no way to verify it.
Trying to believe anything spiritually is absurd because spirits are not science and anything that is not science cannot be verified and is therefore absurd.
Life is absurd.
The purpose of life is reproduction, survival.
Or so it has been verified by science.
Spiritually though, there is no purpose because everything is a purpose.

Nothing has been more Absurd
than everything is right now.
The one question that
every man has asked himself is
why
The only question that is worth answering cannot be answered.
*why

-
today,
I was offered the chance to buy
two 40 mg Adderall pills.
At first I though,
"Eh, a nice dime bag sounds better to me"
But then I remembered my school's mandatory drug testing,
and then I remembered this horrible writer's block that has been plaguing me.

I had heard from friends in the past that the amphetamine-salt combo worked wonders for students.
I had heard that the wonder drug made you do stuff. Any stuff. Anything.
You can not sit still after popping over the dosage of Adderall.
You clean your room, you read a book, you write an essay and for me, hopefully, write.

Enough with the *******.
It's been about forty minutes since I swallowed one and half pills and ground up and snorted another half of one. Okay.

I feel as though I maybe breathing louder than normal.
Also, I'm not writing one line and then switching over to tumblr as I usually do.
Also, my room is really *****.
Also, I've drunk two sprites and ate some leftover Chinese food.
Also, it's really ******* quiet. It's eery.
Also, yesterday in my English class this really nice openly gay kid named Connor walked across the class and as he did so this other kid sitting next to me whispered quite loudly "******" and I did nothing but sit there and angrily stare at my desk.
Also, it's been eating me up inside ever since.
Also, about an hour ago my mom took my (half) baby sister so see her (**** of a) father. She said she'd be home around seven thirty and it's seven twenty eight but she's usually late.
Also, I wish she would buy me cigarettes.
Also, it's Thursday and I have a D- in Biology.

****.

Also, I might hangout with my friend Ryley tomorrow.
Also, I might become a methamphetamine addict.
Also, I spelled that without using spell check.

~

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.

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence grows louder each day than the last.
It's time.

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.

Blue light overlapping
a soft face.

She told me,
you are worthless.
When are you going to grow up
and stop using and stop stealing
and learn how to treat a girl right?

All with silence,
she said this.
All with silence,
she wouldn't look at me.
All with silence,
she drank,
and she wouldn't look at me.

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.

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)

Nothing complements a cup of Earl Gray tea
quite like a walk around Nevada City
and a few cigarettes.

Of course
knowing I will see you tomorrow
and complement your outfit (because it will be nice)
will do fine.

I asked for a dance and you promised me two
and I won't think of much more until the second one is done.
And even after that I'm sure I will think of little more.
Until we dance again.

The football players will still get "pumped up" on four or five EPI pens before a game
and I will still hate them
and the girls will still post on Instagram
and I will still hate them
and she will still laugh at my jokes
and I will still love that laugh.

This has all happened before.
To me, my grandfather, and a boy named John who lived in 1970's New York.
It's all been done before,
it's all a copy of a copy of a copy of  Jesus
but it will still never cease to amaze
(occupy)

Shock and Awe was a failure, some will tell you
and 40 percent of the Central African peoples will be infected with ***
and Jesus will never leave the cross.
And you laugh will never cease to amaze
(occupy)

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.

Withdrawl means different things for different drugs.
For my drug it means irritability, headaches, and hunger.
There are ways to prevent it.
I could chew sunflower seeds or **** on a lollipop or ride a bike.
But I'd rather smoke.
I'd rather pick a half smoked cigarette out of an ashtray, lightly burn the end of the filter (to **** germs. Gotta keep it healthy.) and smoke it, than chew sunflower seeds.  
I'd rather jump out my window at two AM, walk two blocks, reach into the cab of a pickup and take a pack of cigarettes than **** on a lollipop.
I'd rather ditch school, say I'm too sick to go, stay home and smoke cigarettes and read a book all day, than ride a bike.
And I do.
And I do.
And I do.
Yes, I do.

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 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.

There is a beautiful girl who wears blue dresses and has golden blonde hair and picks apples and reads George Orwell and listens to Bob Dylan and lives on the north side of Texas.
Today is her birthday and the best thing I could do is give her a phone call but I lost her number months ago and she hasn't called me yet.
Instead I'll sit here and think about her. Maybe if I think good things about he she will feel good.
That's all I could really ask for, isn't it?
That's all I want for her anyway.

I, on the other hand, want to hold her strong body in my arms and be whispered to sleep by her warm voice. I want to run my calloused hands through her soft hair and read her some E.E. Cummings and nap with her out in the warm Texas sun and drink some of her mother's sweet black tea that is eerily famous in that small town.

I remember the first time she came to this side of the country, the first time I met her.  
She came to visit a friend (who we had grown accustomed to calling Tex) who had moved to this side of the country three or four months earlier.
I met her, the girl who wears blue dresses (Anna) at a market that this town has weekly.
Her golden hair shown against the California sun in a dazzling manner and her blue dress stood out among the short shorts and tank tops. She was eating an apple and walking with Tex. When Tex spotted me she yelled and beckoned me over.
"Nolan, this is Anna," she had said "You're the first native Californian she has met."
I took Anna's hand and told her that I was honored and that it was good to have her in this small town and how sorry I was that I am the first Californian she met and not about how warm her hand was and not about how beautiful she looked in the Autumnal aura surrounding us.
She smiled and told me, in her minute Texas drawl, that it was quite alright and that she liked my sweater.

The second time she visited, we were all sitting in Tex's living room with Tex, her boyfriend Lukas, and Anna. Tex had forced me to come because she felt bad for third wheeling Anna and that "Hey, Anna thought you were cute."
Nervously, I somehow managed "So, uhh, '50/50' is in theaters and it looks ******* awesome. Plus, it's got JGL in it... oh, pardon my language, Anna. But uhh yeah, we should go."
Anna placed her hand on my wrist, "Oh, I would love to! It could be a double date!"
It took me a second but I blushed a darker shade of red that I had ever seen.
Tex clapped her hands "Oh lordy why aren't we on our way now?" Her accent had mostly gone away but she still said 'Lordy' and 'Ya'll' and it was funny.
Lukas was down and we all piled into my old, green Ford Ranger and were on our way.

At the Theater Lukas was on my left and Tex was on his left. Anna was in the seat to my right.
At one point in the movie, I can't remember when, Anna placed her hand on my wrist and I sat there scared halfway to hell.
At another point Anna started crying and I put my arm around her and she cried into my shoulder.
The movie ended and Anna looked up at me and smiled.
She said something and now I can't remember what it was but I can still hear it.

I dropped Tex and Lukas off at Lukas's and drove Anna over to Tex's place.
I walked her to the front door and today she was wearing a dark pink dress. Or maybe it was light red. She had her hands gripping the sides by her thighs as we stood on the door step.
I started to tell her that I had a good time and it's okay, the tears would probably wash out of my shirt when she leaned up and kissed me. Her hands stayed gripping my sides during the quick kiss.
We stood there facing each other for a few seconds before she shoved her finger in my chest and said "I'm going to invite you inside and we're going to kiss some more but I am going back to Texas in a week so you better not make me fall in love with you, Nolan Fillman, or I will be very angry."

We fell in love.
I drove her and Tex to the airport on the day she had to leave.
Tex and I sat with her until the moment she had to board.
As we stood up she kissed me, longer than on the doorstep a week before and I could feel tears against my face. She stuck her finger in my chest again and said "Well this is just peachy, Nolan Fillman, I will probably never see you again."

That was two years ago. It was her birthday and I spoiled it and now two years later I can't properly wish her a happy birthday.

"It is a bad religion to love someone who can not love you back"








-

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.

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

It's like falling into a spider web.
The more you struggle,
the harder it is.

Doctors won't help you.
They'll just give you drugs
that take away the anxiety,
but bring your emotions along with it.

Friends will try and help.
But they can only do so much
before they tell you to get over yourself
and to stop being a baby.

So you'll stay at home,
and smoke your cigarettes
and bite your nails
and take shallow breaths.

All you want
is someone
to put their hand on your shoulder.
To be patient.
To understand,
to kiss you goodnight,
and ruffle your hair in the morning.
All you want is someone to whisper in your ear louder than anxiety already does.

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.

How sad it is to me,
that those with the most beautiful hearts find themselves empty.
That those with the loveliest faces find themselves resembling dirt.
That those with the softest skin cut into themselves.

What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.

Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.

Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this *******.
Nevermind, I got it.

Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)

After years of fighting
I've learned to retreat
at the first sign of love.

If a tree is never given a chance to take root
it will not grow to bear poisonous fruit and if words never proclaim love,
then love can never be lost.

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

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

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

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

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

I guess this could be a romantic poem
but I quit smoking a week ago,
and a poem ain't romantic unless the poet is sitting alone, in the cold, smoking a cigarette and wishing his memories of her could burn with the cigarette. Which is, coincidentally, the last cigarette in his pack.
And besides, my insides have been feeling more hollow than ever, and a poem is only romantic if the writer is feeling romantic.

But I remember, about two weeks ago, not wanting to be trapped in the confines of these blank white walls, I went for a little walk. It was cold and I was smoking the last cigarette in my pack.
My eyes chances upon the stars and a deep unrest fell within my stomach. I thought of you, as I had been often doing, as I always do when I look at the stars. Not desiring life, and only wishing to sleep forever, I began walking home.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot and wished I could do the same with the small part of my heart that you still mercilessly hold.

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

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?

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.

A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.

He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.

Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.

There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.

Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.

Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.

There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.

He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.

His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.

A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.

He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.

He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.

The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was *himself.

And I see the stars fall
and I know you can stop them,
but you don't and I thank you.

Let them fall,
it is their time
and they are happy.

For thousands of years mankind
has predicted the death of the stars
but they never believed their ancestors would see it.

Alas they did,
the year 47806 has seen the fall of the stars,
but not the fall of man.

Oh no, man survived the destruction of Old Earth, the destruction of New Earth,
and the fall of Heigiria, so why should we die now?

No, for dozens of thousand of years man has persisted, for it is in their nature. Just as much as money was a part of pre-Heigiria human nature, so is survival.

We've evolved, we don't wear shoes or smoke cigarettes or speak but we still have art and we still have poetry we only share it differently. We share it on a cosmic scale, we mold Galaxies into love letters and universes into sonnets.

Let the stars fall, my dearest companion,
it signifies your love for me and the love I feel for you. Let's travel to Universe XB87 and experience it again in a millennium, let's travel to Multiverse 3 and experience it ten thousand times in ten thousand ways. Nothing I could think and nothing I could shape could be as beautiful, could be as wondrous as the warmth I feel from you as the stars die

When the hard cider is all gone
and the pabst is all stale
and the ***** makes you gag
and the drug testing doesn't let you smoke ****
what do you do?
You have a ******* good time
with some great people
and you pack bowls for them
and roll joints for them
and hate the frat boys with them.

You laugh at the funny jokes
and duck call at the bad ones.
You smoke too many cigarettes
and give away your only lighter.

You fall asleep with one of them in your arms.
But don't worry, next weekend it will be someone else.
This time it was a tenacious blonde who's taking you to prom.
Next week it might be the lovely red head who wears his heart on his sleave
or it may be the funny Jewish kid who plays beer pong by himself.
Maybe it'll be the girl who shows up when all the ***** is gone
and sits next to you and lets you hold her close.
But never by yourself,
they're all to lovely to let that happen.

A few days from then you'll go on a walk and bring a few cigarettes and a book
but the cigarettes remind you of them and the book reminds you of her
so you leave Leaves of Grass in the grass and smoke the cigarettes
thinking of the Before.
thinking of the Then.
Not worrying about the Now
and forgetting the When.

You sleep like a baby,
in the sense that you wake up every few hours and struggle to fall asleep without your mother's breathing to sing a lullaby.
She's outside,
falling in to old habits,
throwing two years into a bottle and downing it.
She's smoking her last cigarette so she sneaks into your room careful not to wake your seemingly sleeping Self and digs in your backpack until she finds your cigarettes.

In the morning she will magically have those two years back
and she will have forgotten those cigarettes she took from you.

But you'll throw her empty bottles away before your sister can find them and Understand.
And she won't lend you that twenty bucks she said she would because she spent it on two bottles of Jägermeister.

And the girl who lives down the street knows none of this because to her it's not real.
She only knows that your mother has a two year NA chip
and she only knows that you used to Hate yourself.
She knows that you like her
and she thinks she likes you.
And she lets you put your arm around her
and she snaps at Satan with you.

And you love the lovely red head and you hope he reads this
and is happy  because he is in one of your ramblings.
just as your heart smiles
when you find yourself in one of his.
however more poetic and sensitive and lovely they are.

"There are moments here:
only dots on an endless timeline.
All the motions of ordinary love"*


It's hard to find meaning,
but it's harder to excuse meaning.
It's harder to deny that these simple routines
of waking up and continuing
are meaningless.

Things happen.
More specifically,
today a boy told me that
people like me give him the energy to keep living.
I've thought a lot about that
and I'm still not sure why he would say that
but I am sure that he meant it
and even surer that if I all I can claim
to have accomplished in life is giving this lovely boy
energy to keep living
than my life will be worth having lived.

I am sure the endless monotony
of repetition will cease
and things will seem new and fresh soon.
I've tried to bring about these changes
by doing simple things;
I've stopped eating meat
and using painkillers,
I've bleached my hair white
and have been on dates with a very pretty, if not comely, girl.

The only way to change that which bothers me
on the inside is to change those things around me
that bring upon the molestation.

It's amazing how I can sit down and begin writing with no clear objective or outline and as I feel the energy of writing leaving me,
I feel as if i have accomplished something.
I look back on what I have written and feel
that I have helped myself achieve some sort of clarity,
I can turn the zeroes and ones into comfort,
I can turn the digitally remastered music into love
and I can feel it.

My uncle once told me he couldn't believe I could be sad,
that I wouldn't believe the things he's seen over seas,
both on and off duty, both as a soldier and as a traveler.
Maybe he's right,
maybe I shouldn't be sad,
but it's only when I'm alone I feel this way,
and even then it's only some of the time.

Three years ago I was close to taking my own life,
and I remember that then I was only happy when I was alone,
and even then it was only some of the time.

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.