I get it.
I really do.
She is an ocean
of life--stories within
stories live within her.
Stories of lives
spanning far and forever.
That's why you love her,
why you went away.

I'm just ash.
I'm full of nothing,
I'm full of sorrow.

I get it.
I really do.

I’m full of
the *******
that resides in my
corridors—
these hedonists that slice
at my skin and my soul.

I’m old and tiredly awake.
The ******* won’t let me sleep.
They bite my guts with greedy teeth.  
I become water…I become grain…
sowed by sadism and adultery.

They transfuse
into me and
I evolve into
something horribly new.

No more my artistic aura,
my classical sense—
Just a specter of gloom
and dust floating
in the structure of a self I can’t really recall.

This is my holy downfall.

What I say: I'm not hurting myself because you don't love me. I'm hurting myself because I hate me.
What I mean**: Please come back and love me so I can stop hurting myself.

I thought she was drunk
the first time our
chakras crossed.

But when I finally entered
her realm I realized that
her mind isn't intoxicated,
rather her heart is free.  

She loves France
though she's never been...
She loves the illusion of
a society full of hearts full of
sorrow.

But it isn't real! It never is.
France is a fictional reality--
a technicolor hot mess!  A song
pirouetting in a black and white film

She doesn't need herbs or
chemicals to be herself.
And I don't need them to **** me either!
She is her own drug
and she is high on herself

I drown myself in cliche
pop songs
telling me "I'm original" and
"I'm [*******] unique."
*******. Closeted twinks.
They don't know
my tedious ways and
dull style.

Thanks for leaving.
Thanks for proving me right.
Funny how you still hurt me
even when you're gone.
I am being buttfucked
by a ghost!
I am being torn in half!

The leaves tell me
to stop forcing love
and to just fall naturally.
But what the **** do they know?
They just sit around
and watch others live,
watch others pass by.
They don't know
how to feel.
They just sit
and stare
and die.

I feel within my gender
in a realm of passion
and Russian literature.

A king of dreams and strife
leads me to myself
as our culture dies on the other side.
Who are we to **** our culture?
Or it did perish in Hiroshima and Nagasaki?
Did you know that those atomic bombs were made with love
—or if you will, a broken heart?

Can you imagine—a love destroyed a culture!
Imagine, if my love destroyed our culture?

My language is young and not so wordy.
complex ideas give birth to simple sentences
This style is a pleasure for worldly ears.

Your style is old and dramatic—
who are you to bore an innocent girl
with your dry stories
of bourgeoisie boys and sand people!

My king of dreams and strife
translates poetry into destruction,
while you create sorrow within our dying culture.

The ****** told it with drollness…I heard it like this:

The 5000 children were waiting before sunrise
Each brought three items for the Creep to sign
They love him—he is their passion, their hero
They love his genius and style
To them he is a breathing masterpiece

They praise the darkness that he brings into the atmosphere
And get high off his eerie aura

The Creep was tired but willing
His Organizer could see the stress shine off him and gently she rubbed the Creep with ice
Within the first half hour his eyes were wilting, his frown was turning to stone
“My fingers are bleeding,” he mumbled as he scribbled a child’s copy of his misery
“Can you get me some bandages?” he asked his Organizer

“Wait! No!” a kid protested. “Don’t bandage him until he bleeds on my book!”
Every child in line heard this and a chorus of 5000 cried, “Not fair! If the Creep bleeds on his book he has to bleed on my book!”
*** is what went through his Organizer’s mind

Creep’s jaw fell
She couldn’t believe this poet didn’t know what to say—he was caught off guard
“They’re your fans,” she said
He spread blood on each of those kids’ three things
He was very sustainable with his blood, deepening each wound before cutting a new one

…The ****** told this story with pleasure and wit
The audience laughed, as if it were the ****** who had to cut his fingers for 5000 kids

The clouds are boring now
as I exist in a realm outside reason and romance.
These clouds are aimlessly
splattered on a dull blue sky
by a tried Artist
feeling uninspired…unrealized.

Is there any hope
for the Artist
and our world he tries to paint?
Why must the artwork continue
to destroy itself!
I destroy me
by staying stagnant and unamused.

Perhaps sometimes art
must be boring to soothe the soul

Let's stay in this prison of blankets
and un-remember our meaning
to this existence.

I have walked all the parks
and I have swam in all the seas.
I have slow-danced in all the bars.
I have seen all the cosmic dreams.

My bones are tired of adventure.
My soul is tired of the new.

Let's ignore the changing colors and trends.
Let's arrest ourselves in this bed.

Somewhere where the jazz is fine
and smooth kids wanna spend time,
I had lost my ignorance and my pride.
Patience bit me. I grew a mind.

The world is a vampire and we only knew
after a thousand cups of coffee
and a thousand classrooms.

Let's forget. Let's die.

I can't write
Russian with this pen.
This pen is stingy with ink.
I have to re-trace
my strokes to make them shown.
It makes me re-think my stupidity
before I can make it permanent.

As the café fills
with youthful chatter
and screechy laughter
I wonder
what it’d be like to have a friend.

At the billiards
hip teens lovingly roast each other—
their style and form
bring warmth to my lonely day.
Would I ever play billiards
or is that game
reserved for people who have friends?

I sip my strawberry tea
and imagine
having a good friend
To unwind with storytelling and gossip

We'd drink pink martinis
and be so chic in black.
And we'd be loud and open.
I'd be so happy
That I'd never have to write poetry again.

As the fantasy fades
I smile into my strawberry tea
Not too pink, but plenty of sweet.
This is alright. This cold drink is a friend.

My throat’s all scratched from this screaming I’ve done
My diaphragm is all rubbery from these animal calls
But I carry on until you answer my distresses

O Captain, o Captain! Take me away from these generic hoes
I’m too swag for this ghetto
These ******* be hatin’ but you were always mine for the takin’

So take me now—like I did you…
Please. We’re friends. We’ve partied together and cried together.
I even bought you taco bell.

Take me away on your disco stick because
This club can’t handle me and my electric *** pants

What good is your love when just our chakras touch…
I need your grasp, I need your smell…and your ****, dramatic stare

Captain, my Captain, you may not be fly like Kanye
And I may not be glam like Beyoncé,
But this club can’t handle us right now

This small town has no more stories to tell  
So what are you doing to me?  
Small talk and pretend
as if we can save ourselves from mediocrity  
A forbidden dance
between the school maiden and the passing cowboy.  
No! Please! I am too lazy for adventure.

Put your hands back on that steering wheel,
you are not insane enough for me.

The snow is what’s keeping us alive.  
I haven’t felt my face in weeks.
The sun doesn’t shines here anymore.  
No hope, no prayers in this desolate town—
and that’s all right with me.  
I don’t know myself and I don’t want to.

I want to feel
beautiful again.
It's like I couldn't wash away
the **** and **** you said when you left.
Your words have been marinating my life,
trapped inside me like a bad song.
Following me everywhere like a bad tattoo.

But I'm done.

I'm ready for me now--the real me...
The me I couldn't be when I was half of you.

Let me finish my waffles and
I'll find something adventurous to wear.
No. **** it.
I'm getting up.
Let me look for something pre-you.
Orange skirt? Green blouse?
Wait. What is this yellow sundress?
Yes.

It’s all me,
because you never have anything to say.  
I fill the silence
with my nonsense.  
I fill the silence with me.  

There’s too much me
in this date.  
There is
no us,
because I’m inhaling
the summer air
and chewing this buttery bagel

while you’re on your phone
just scrolling and refreshing
secondhand experiences.  

My hands sway
with my useless tales
as your hands hold your attention.
Your thumbs sliding the screen
that is brighter than the words I waste.
This is all a waste.

There isn’t enough honey
in my tea to take this bitter
******* you call company.