I watch a sunrise behind an old abandoned church in my home-town
I haven't slept for two nights
the crystal clear beauty of the sleep-deprived
the jaw aching beauty of the pink sky
almost hurts my eyes
the irony I see reflected back at me
how such a daring light could hide behind
a cowardly institution
My thoughts are crisp and clear
after two nights of no sleep
and I cant describe
I cannot describe what I see
But its there behind my eyelids
when I close them shut
I am dreaming of tomorrow
But tomorrow never comes.
I am closer to god when I am sleepless
Though I'm not sure I believe in god when I am awake
like all things are during suffering
and the sky is just a canvas
for me to whisper my thoughts to
I paint his hands in the shape of clouds
under this red sky at morning
They hold nothing
and nothing holds them
heavy hands and my heavy eyelids
both closed
open
wide
shut
he holds me in his hands
he holds the promise of tomorrow
I tell him tomorrow is a lie.

I wish I could find the edge of the world
and revel in its majesty for only a minute
so that I may know the splendor of life
in the reflection of the human soul.

All alone I smoke cigarettes on the roof
I was going to tell you all about the sun
How it disappeared into the night
The sun never rose in your eyes again

Cause you're way
2
cute,
2
cry
over a

    Big-***.
    Stupid-***.
    Lazy-***
    Broke-***

air-head.

That somehow
caught you in a web.
& made you
uhhh-****-ted.

Get it?
Get it?
Got it!
Good.

Be like the
Brookie Monster
and know
U R A
rare ruby.

That should be
hidden,
at the bottom
of the
cookie jar.
SO no one can steal your beauty.
For their own *****-gain.

Sleeping alone *****.
But nothings worse
than waking up next
to
a
skanky/******
Lust-****.

A poet walks into a bar and proceeds to discover life in the form of
cheap liquor,
clove cigars,
blues music,
passing glances,
hazy dreams,
and terrible dancing.

He then writes about love and loss,
waking in the morning only to wonder
why there are ink stains and sketches
in his journal.

Lantern-lit nights
The sting and scratch of a thousand pin-point bites
Thick mosquito swarms
Three other siblings stumbling in the dark
Checking the riverbank lines
The thrill of the tell-tale tug of a catfish hooked

But boys aren’t supposed to be scared
of slime and scales or mud and messes

Boys aren’t supposed to be play with Barbies
or spend more time with their mother and sisters

But I prefer them to the savages