I like you.
Yes, quite a bit I do.

Just about as much as I like the stars,
and quite a bit more than I like cars.

I like you as much as a like the trees,
it's safe to say that you're the bees knees.

I like you more than I like drugs,
and one of my favorite places to be,
is wrapped in one of your hugs.

All my life I've chased happiness through herbs and manufactured substances.

Occasionally the touch of a womanly body would spark life in my heart.

And six months ago to the day I asked you to be mine and you gladly accepted.

I got clean (I used by choice and not habit, I can honestly say) and I loved with all my heart but not all my mind.

I am not a body, I have one.
I do not have a soul, I am one.

And I'm thankful I continue to collide with you, no matter how seemingly hard I try to ***** it up. I swear, I've only ever tried to bring you happiness and you have no reason to believe me but I'm happy down to the very core of my being that you do. That you're trying to.
And that you return my love tenfold.

Call me Oedipus and let me call you mommy,
**** me hard and kiss me lively.

Act like Freud and dream about my ****,
spread your legs and let me have a lick.

Kiss me like Hemingway, short and sweet,
like the sun and the horizon, eternally we shall meet.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

We watched a movie today.
It was lovely, full of pastels and romance.
The plot was immense, the casting, superb.

I enjoyed the movie a great amount.
My favorite part was the part I missed because I buried my face into your neck.
I didn't want to leave.

You boop my nose,
and kiss my mouth.

You hold my hand,
and put my mind at ease.

You leave bruises on my neck,
and make me happy.

I do these things for you too,
and it makes you happy.

I love baseball.
The smell of the grass, the crack of the bat, the pop of ball hitting mitt.
I love baseball.
The friendship, the camaraderie, the seed shells littering the ground.
I love baseball.
From behind home plate, to the on deck circle, to the bullpen in right center field.
I love the fist bumps I recieve, entering the dug out after a well placed sac-bunt.
I love the hollers and cheers when the ball flies over the fence.
I love seeing the other players and knowing they love the same things as me.
Standing on the top step of the dug out, impatiently waiting for my spot in the lineup.
I love watching my shortstop tag out runner after runner.
I love my pitcher hitting his spots and I love our left fielder diving for pop flies.
I love catching and blocking ***** in the dirt.
I love the bruises I find on my body after every game.
I love keeping my foot on home plate before throwing over to first on a double play.
I love seeing the lights and hearing the cheers, knowing they're for me, my team, my sport.
I love baseball.

Tonight the moon has a yellow tint to it.
I could not tell you if it is waxing or waning,
but I can tell you that it's beautiful.

Tonight your eyes rest in my mind.
I could not tell you what you look like right now,
but I can tell you that you are beautiful.

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.

The board snaps and the red light indicates the doors are secure
and the entirety of the manor rejoices when you walk in.
You're ten minutes late but you brought 4 grams of
cleverly disguised bad intentions and for that everybody is eternally grateful.
But I'll try and be cool.



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

So be cool.

He stands,
cigarette in hand,
golden hair blowing in the wind.

Except it's not blowing because he cut it all off.
If you ask him why he'll tell you he doesn't know;
he just wanted a change.

He'll pick you up when you're
feeling blue and he'll calm you down
when you're feeling red.

With his hands he creates music
and with his mouth he creates laughter.
He is the essence of humanity.

He'll take notice when you do good
and he'll call you out when
you're acting like a ****.

He stands,
Bertran the Man,
atop his white van,
cigarette in hand,
short hair reflecting the sunlight.

He'll tell you he loves you,
only if he means it,
and by God he will make
you feel it.

He is far away now.

Since I first wrote about him,
we've grown quite a bit closer.
Reading poetry in his smoked out van using hushed tones.
******* can be a verb but to him it's an adjective,
he'd use it often;
"I ******* love that girl, Nolan"
"That's the ******* ****, man"

We crouched under an awning,
cigarettes in hand, trying to escape the rain.
We needed to read no poetry then,
we were poetry, him and I.

He'd put his arm around me
while I vomited.
He understood I was sick because of seeing her with him, it had nothing to do with *******,
but he was more than willing to pretend.

I miss that man,
Bertran the Man,
who stands with cigarette in hand,
atop his white van,
hearing the cheers of those not fans.

I love that man,
for he is good and whole and poetry

Angsty feelings portrayed with unflashy adjectives.
blah blah blah
Hateful words directed at people in general.
blah blah blah
Ranting about cigarettes like a pig.
blah blah blah
My music is better than yours because no one else likes it.
blah blah blah
Society *****.
blah blah blah
Quotes from pop-punk songs.
blah blah blah
Depressed ramblings.
blah blah blah
*****.
blah blah blah
Love *****.
You *****.
I ****.
******* *****.
blah blah blah blah...

She writes poetry .
I'm not sure,
I'm not one to judge,
but I think it's very good.

It makes me laugh and smile.
It makes me stop and think.
It makes me happy to be in the same room as her.

She listens to hip hop
and reads J.D. Salinger.

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

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

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 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 fell in love with you the moment I met you.
And many times since then.

I remember when I first met you.
I handed the mic to you
and you nervously introduced yourself.

I fell in love with your words first,
and you second.

I fell in love with the way they rolled of your lips
and caused my heart to palpitate.

I fell in love with the way you smile
and how it caused my lips to curl into one of my own.

I fell in love with the way your words eased my anxiety away to nothing
and I how I was able to think around you.

I fell in love with you
and I have been continuing to do so every time
I hear your voice,
read your words,
or see your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I looked at you in the morning and I was happy

Oh California!
How my heart burns for you,
how beautiful you are!

The greenest trees and the most picturesque beaches.
The soft sands of the desert,
and the rolling slopes of the foothills.
My body, my mind, my spirit, all belong to you, oh Great and Wonderful! California.

Your hills are on fire,
scarring the beauty of your curves.
Your rivers run dry,
suffocating the green into brown.
How my heart cries for you! Oh dry, oh burning, oh how relentless this war against you, oh California! And there is no relief in sight, winter promises no respite, and the summer will be long and tough and dry like the ones before and before and before.

Oh California!
How I tremble, how I shake in awe,
your sun burns a bright orange,
smoke fills your sunsets,
even fire cannot detract from your beauty!
Oh cleansing rains!
Oh cleansing El Niño!
Oh how I beg you to save California!
My California!

My roots go deeper than that of the greatest redwood, California is my home, and not the most fearsome of fires could cause me to leave, not the fiercest and most ruthless of droughts could scare me away!

Oh California!
Let my tears be absorbed by your thirsty soil!
Let my body one day feed your hungry crops!

Oh California! I am yours, to the very last.
God bless California!
God bless the desert and the mountains!
God bless the foothills and the valleys!
God bless the beaches and the forests!
God bless my home and spare it from the relentless.
California is my God, and I hope she hears my prayers!

But I want to drink your mother's tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The sun rises slowly at first.
But wait, it will be high in the sky sooner than you think.
And again, before you know it, it will be setting.
Only now, it will take what seems like forever to die.

It will breathe it's last breathe
and then another
and then another.
It refuses to die; to sink.

The night time is tricky
because the stars will stay in seemingly fixed locations
but if, and only if you lie on your back with a loved one
you will see that they rotate and sing a song just for the two of you.

"Ezekiel saw de wheel; way up in de air
And de littl' wheel run by faith, oh yes, an' de big wheel run by de grace of God
'Tis a wheel in de wheel in de middle of de wheel way Lawd in de middle."

Choir songs are fun and catchy and I have to sing them every ******* day.
They are all written by some funny looking black guy named James in the earl 1900's.

"John said the city was just four square, walk in Jerusalem just like John
and he declared he'd meet me there, walk in Jerusalem just like John,
Oh John oh John what do you say, walk in Jerusalem just like John."

Most of them are about God and faith but sometimes you actually feel them.
It's weird, they make you feel spiritual. A whole class full of students singing can do that to you.

"All this night shrill Shaunteclear, days proclaiming trumpeter,
claps his wings and loudly cries, "Mortals! Mortals! Wake and rise!
See the wonder days are under, and through his will good be done!""

Sometimes you don't even know what they're about, no kidding, but they still feel nice to sing.
The ringing of the Sopranos and the roar of the Baritones is awing, it really is.

"And the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
how the twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,
in the crystal lime-de light."

It's cool when you sing poetry, like Poe or something like that. It doesn't give you the same
feeling but it's still cool, if you can get into that kind of stuff.

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

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

Being as the clouds
is a marvelous way to be.

Alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough,
I had to breathe deeply and slowly and snort some white dust.
Boy, that did it; rubbed clean my brain, got rid of that rust.
Cause it's get high or bust
and alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough.

Now I'm wondering what's left;
a broken promise or three,
I'm sorry I didn't mean it,
but I meant it at the time.
I'm trying my best but I really need some rest.

It was one of those days
when the sun was like,
"I'm gonna be real hot today....extra hot"

I saw some birds fly underneath a truck.
by their banter,
I could tell they were excited;
"Ah dude, this shade's sick"
"Yeah dude. This shade's tweet"
And it's crazy cause those
blaring days sometimes turned
into vicious attacks by fanatical
rains. They always wanted my face.
The drowning plants under my
Econoline shoes place their infants
on my laces. I'm afraid to open the door
because of the black widow near the
doorbell.

I once broke one.

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

I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

It's a Thursday night
and I'm higher than I've been
all week.

The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating.

Two blows later
and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words.
My body feels warmer than it has
since November of 2012,
and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008.

The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years
and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning.

Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall,
and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world.

Thank God for muscle memory,
and thank God for compulsive *******,
and thank God unsharpened pencils,
and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem.

There is no purpose to this,
but today I asked a friend of mine
why she is always looking at the sky
and she told me because if she looks at it long enough
it isn't the sky at all.
It is her
and she can speak to herself
and she can thank God for compulsive ******* and ****** science fiction literature.

We came
together,
joined at the hips
and the lips.

With our words we shared stories
and with our mouths
we opened up to each other.

We were aware of each other
for quite some time,
at least me of you,
but we shared only a few
memories
and only two
nights.

One was spent in the cold.
On a couch,
with alcohol
and sweat
and nicotine
and only one blanket,
but you had me to keep you warm,
and you kept me plenty warm.
You left early in the morning,
and I kissed you before you left.
I tried to go back to sleep,
but it's hard to sleep when you're smiling.

The second time was warm,
in a bed,
with marijuana
and nicotine
and my best friend in the next room.
We kissed
and we kissed
and we kissed
and we slept
and then we kissed some more
and in the morning it was my turn to leave early,
but you kissed me before I left
and I hope you were able to sleep.

You're out of sight
but not out of mind.

I can't even write about you anymore

I don't want
my life
to be the worst joke in all of history.
I just want
you
to spend the rest of your days living with me.
We could build
a house
a pretty little cottage right by the sea.
We'll spend
our days
taking walks on the beach and kissing tenderly.
We won't fret
or fight
over the petty little things, we'll live comfortably.
And at the end
of the day
we'll lie in bed, let the night rot away,
while we,
kiss
and laugh
at all the things that troubled us so long before
we met
and loved
and began our lives.
At the end
of our lives
we'll sing each other to sleep, so softly.

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

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

One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.

Example: You ask me for a cat.

One Cuil: If you asked me for a cat and I gave you a rhino.

Two Cuil: If you asked me for a cat, but it turns out I don't really exist. In the place where you perceived me to be standing is a picture of a large cat. On it's collar are the words: "I am a large rhino."

Three Cuil: You are a cat. You begin to scream, only to realise that you are meowing. You scratch just under your ears and begin to purr.

Four Cuil: Why are we wearing dinosaur outfits? A light breezes rolls over our bodies but you only have one arm. Suddenly, the wind begins to howl and an alternative universe is created where we are dinosaurs wearing human outfits. I have cats for arms, and as you notice this you meow again.

Five Cuil: You ask for a cat; and I give you a cat. Your pull it to your chest and begin to pet it. Your nose begins to run and you wipe it on the cats tail. On the other side of the world a bank is robbed by a woman who has 7 sisters. In her wallet is a picture of you, in your human form. Your ears are pierced in this picture and they were in your human form as well, but something is different about them. The cat purrs and grabs a hold of your earring, ripping it from your ear. Milk drips out of you wound and the lady robbing the bank is arrested. Her oldest sister is climaxing while having *** with my brother. I give you a cat and it is poisonous. I am dead.

Six Cuil: You ask me for a cat. Mark Whalberg tells me he will not **** and he hands me a cat. The cat is smoking a cigarette, I develop liver cancer. I die. The wind blows on you again and the cat does not have a left rear leg. It puts its cigarette out on my eye. MGMT plays softly and you meow to the moon which is a pizza. The pizza has olives on it which displeases you. Your displeasure causes the woman to rob the bank so she can buy you Hawaiian pizza.  The gravitational pull of the olives causes a flood to reach your house. You cry and your tears become lakes. The Earth is flooded. Uranus ignites suddenly, engulfing Neptune in flames. A civilization of Nicolas Cage's living there are destroyed. Obi Wan says that there has been a disturbance in the force. A cat hands you me.

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

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

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

I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm not sure what I'm thinking.
I do know that,
Just like the moon,
I will die cold and all alone.

God forgives us our trespasses.
Friends are not so easy.
Family is not so easy.
I don't know what's going to happen,
and even though I get this feeling often,
it is still quite unsettling.

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

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

Lack of balance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

Burning
out brighter than the rest.

Trying
hard but it ain't my best.

Dying
may hurt but I'll finally get some sleep.

Wishing
on a group full of stars.

Clearing
my mind, my soul, my heart, my palms.

Piercing
skin.

Destroying
all in my life that is beautiful.
If I write a beautiful essay I must burn it.
If I continue to do so I must chop off my hand.
If I have a beautiful friendship I must end it.
If I have a good looking haircut I must ruin it.
If I'm getting good grades I must ditch.
If my parents start to trust me I must sneak out.
If I start to sober up I must drink mouthwash.
If I start to love myself I better **** up more gloriously than all before me.

A heart beats inside my chest,
but is that sound enough evidence
that I can love,
or not hurt at best.

I try and I try and I try
but good feelings never come from my efforts,
so I take and I take and I take
and make beautiful people cry.

I should be tearing myself apart,
unearthing every sin
and dark place,
to find even the remains of a heart.

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.

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