here she is sitting in front of the tv
like a kid waiting for their gift on christmas morning
she was waiting for his name to come up on the screen
to us he died twice
once when they said the plane he was on crashed
and the second time today
when they brought what remained of them to their country
to theur loved ones
to their families
and what's worse than that
is that my mother lost a friend and a cousin
my grandpa lost a son to him
and my uncles a brother
seeing them on tv all so preoccuipied
i realised that we were no better
that we are all destined to the same thing
death
what makes us different is the way we live this life
because we don't choose the moment we're gone
we could be gone in a plane crash
we could be gone in a bed while our health is still intact
but we choose what we do of our lives
and i'm choosing to make most of it
i'm choosing what i can and i will
because hell is a place on earth and
hell is in each of us
hell is each one of us
we are the ones who remember
and we are hell to others
depending on what we remember of them
and i choose to be remembered as
kind, loving, passionate, compassionate, human
and this is exactly how i'm gonna be

I tried crushing each memory like a shortening cigarette, but it's easier to allow yourself to die than to forget.

I stood in front of the mirror-the wall behind me scribbled in green-and I watched myself shave the weathered, brunette hairs off my cheeks, chin, lips, and jawline that you found so attractive and wrapped your lips around like a future reunion of, "Hi. I'm sorry for goodbye. I'm glad I met you again before I thought I would die."

And, in my head, I watched you approach my lips with yours.
And, in my head, I took a step back and started to tear up.
You asked me to kiss you, in my head.
And I shook my head, in my head.
You said you were sorry and got help, in my head.
You were better, in my head.
You were healthy, in my head.
But I'm aware some things may only live and die and say goodbye in my head.

I sat on the edge of my bed, no longer in my head, watching "Good Morning, Vietnam", and I remembered where I was when I learned that Robin Williams died. I remembered poking your thigh, in Starbucks, and wondering how long it'd take you to feel my finger or if you'd try to ignore the feeling, like most feelings. Your lips were red and your pants were black and on white, were black cats. And you were afraid to ask for your coffee. And once you sipped on your coffee, you left a red stain and it still appears in my head. And I relive every thing while being dissacioiated with my current life. And every kiss is a red stain in my head. Oh, great, we're back in my head. I guess we never left.

And I remembered when I knew you were dying and leaving and when I knew you had died and left. But I drowned those memories in ***** and suffocated them with smoke, until my body collapsed and until my lungs learned the cursive in every exhale.

In my head.
In my head.
In my head.
In my head.

Here I sit in the dark, watching 80's films. Because thirty years ago, there was no you and there was no me. I imagine it was a simpler time for the both of us.

A time where we never met.
But I'm glad I met you.
A time where we never kissed.
But I'm glad I kissed you.
A time where I didn't say,
"It's okay.
It's okay and it's always going to be okay
because I love you too."

It's not okay. It's not okay. Itsnotokay.itsnotokayitsnotokayitsnotokayitsnotokay

Tomorrow I will wake up, put on a t-shirt, boxers, socks, jeans, worn out Nikes, and a beat up flannel. I'll check my pulse, as I do my vitals, and I'll take my medications. I'll look at my bank account and determine how much money it'll take to forget you and how much more I wish I had so I could help you.

Is there a simpler way of saying I love you, or should I continue writing this album?

Sometimes the ride is all that matters no direction has suited me most my life.
I listen to the music of the night and smelt the ocean as I tasted the salty winds embrace.

I'd come to an understanding of emptiness was far better than the false comfort of another's secrets  were better off left buried with only one    lost soul  serving as the map.

I sat at the bar for a while not speaking to others as I found it far more comforting to be lost within my own lies and illusions insanity makes for good company.
Far better than the ******* of some ego driven windbag.

We were always happy in the moment but it was alone that let the demons wreak havoc upon our memories, why couldn't I ever just get over ******* and leave the past a corpse to rot within the ground?

In depths of your own thoughts you will find the truths that are not mired by your own lies.
A man's ego is but a wildfire soon to be out-of-control and so easily snuffed out by another's manipulation.

I couldn't give the answers when asked questions anymore, **** if I cared to answer I just struggled to exist let alone fix others.
And my vices were given the excuse they so desired.


Why can't we just be like this she asked?
Because moments my dear are simply that.
And time is a ******* of a friend who exist only to bitter you and where down your soul like the sun does to the old man's skin turning fresh intentions to worn-out leather hide.

Maybe I'm a ******* maybe you're just a ***** maybe were all flawed and I was simply looking for someone more ****** up than ourselves.
Stroke our own ego and say well at least I'm not that ******* bad.

I never care for the destination I simply exist for the trip.
Maybe I'm running from something maybe I'm just happy to escape, maybe I'm just a fool to life but I've seen enough to know the blindness of passion and the deceit of a well intending heart.

We drove from miles happy to exist and content not to speak.
Sometimes the silence says it all my friends.

And when people ask "why him", all I can say is "why not?".
It's actually pretty simple. He's an outsider.
You look at all them rich boys with their perfect whitened teeth, and their v neck sweaters and polo shirts and you manage to guess they will never put a finger up to accomplish anything, there's always someone behind their every move.
And you look at him, he's a catastrophe he's a mixture of drugs, alcohol cigarettes and midnight hookers, with nothing to prove, with no one to take responsibility for his mistakes, with no pre planned future.

And so in a heartbeat, his worn off knuckles and dark eyes, his scars,
simply become, *home.