You remember what you wanted to be when you grow up?

Right now

When I grow up

I want to be a poet

Even if I am homeless and I use all my green paper

To buy myself some white paper

Just to **** it up all over again

I have muddied so many perfect things

With my ***** hands

***** thoughts

***** feelings

If I don’t etch myself away on something

How can I ever come clean?

Especially if I am homeless

I will cut these words out of me if I have to

I will soap box my heart out

From anywhere

Even if no one is listening

I don’t mind being the self talking

grungy stutterer you step into the street to walk away from

That awkward smacking is just me working the psalms

From the roof of my mouth like holy peanut butter

They are bitter and equally disgusting to the pallet as they are the ear

But the truth has a nasty taste

And beauty is always buried under layers of dirt

And I can’t wipe hard enough

I will never be approachable

I need to find at least 10 ways to say

No longer negotiable

I want to be a poet

Just some guy who

Puts ink to paper

The same way he

Puts paper to face

In order to soak the bleeding of his blemishes

If I don’t use something

To wipe away my *****

How will I ever be clean?

Pooping makes me sad sometimes
Sometimes it hurts
Sometimes it takes a while
Sometimes though
When it’s over
It makes me smile

People make me sad sometimes
Sometimes they hurt
Sometimes they take a while
Sometimes though
For no good reason
They make me smile

Words make me sad sometimes
Sometimes they hurt
Sometimes they stutter for a while
Sometimes though
Their timing is perfect
And they make me smile

You make me sad sometimes
Sometimes you hurt
Sometimes your love takes a while
Sometimes though
Mostly when you’re not making me sad
You’re making me smile

I sleep with the lamp on now

Only I throw a black dress shirt over it

I press my arm over my eyes

And pray that it’s only my imagination

That it’s the sound of the fan losing its pace

And not someone testing the doorknob

I pray that it’s just my fear making me realize

The actual weight of the blanket over my feet

That it’s not hands learning the curves of my skinny ankles

And then like clockwork I am awaken

To the smell of her perfume

It smells old as it lingers in my nose before fading

It is not my mother’s perfume

It is sweet and at the same time full of must

And fills my lungs with fear

Makes me hold my breath so that I cannot see it

As I feel the room suddenly get colder

I am just waiting now for a whisper

My ears are begging for it

They are on fire for a response

From the emptiness

Speaking directly to my imagination

I don’t want to see you

I don’t want to hear you

I already feel you

And the only solace I find

Is the answer to the emptiness

Existing in a world where people die

That I might one day

Breathe fear into a man

To remind him what it’s like to be a boy

In the middle of the night

When the night is ready to overtake him

When really

All I ever wanted was to remind someone

I existed

Like writing

“I was here”

On bathroom walls inside movie theaters

I was hear

And you better never forget it

I just want to not want this

But I do

I want this

Even though I can already see my heart

Dangling above a meat grinder

By a capillary vein

Pumping with the pace of desperation

That our lips might touch

I wish I didn’t want to kiss you

But I do

You are not supposed to stand so close

I can feel your breath

It is sweet when I inhale it

And I know your tongue must taste like

The coffee I am watching you drink

All the right kinds of bitter

I don’t want

To sleep alone anymore

And I don’t want

To continue guessing

What you might be thinking or doing

At this very moment

And because I don’t want anything to be unrequited between us

Right now

I’m drinking a tall can

And wondering how I can make my house not haunted

And am secretly loving you

I am secretly loving you

And all I want

The only thing

Is for you to love me back

In any way you can

Welcome to this empty house
Looks like it might sell any day
Only it’s not up for sale
The fridge is full of beer
And the doors are always open

In the back there is a room
Full of things you can break with your bare hands
Your bear hands
There are metal baseball bats
And hockey sticks if you need help

Take everything apart
Till you find replacements
For your missing parts
If you have to
We are so much duct tape and makeshift courage by now

There are days where it’s the only way to feel better
Don’t tell me
The ring in your arms as you connect
Doesn’t travel down your spine
And make you shiver like a good memory

Maybe this isn’t you
But some of us were born to break things
Some of us were born
To find our missing pieces
Inside piles and piles of missing pieces
We are so many badly sewn glassy eyes and awkward hinges by now

On the days
Where the murmur in your heart
Has you searching for some new tubing
Or when you need new wires
To reconnect your nerves
Or if you want to tighten your heartstrings
To play a calmer tune
Because there is too much distortion
In your song by now

Know there is an empty house
Stocked with beer
And in the back there is a room that I call a church
And the doors are always open

Every town is haunted
Every city
Every home
There is a ghost caught in every breath

In my house there is the ghost of a woman
Who used to cook in the fireplace after the electricity died
And the social security stopped

She fell in love with the ghost of a cloud
Who is waiting for the breeze to stop long enough
To finally enjoy the heat of the sun
As it pierces rays through it
To the ghosts still here on earth

If we did not turn to dust
We would be walking on layers of bone
We would swim in oceans of ivory
Rolling in the breeze
Sounding like hollow clatter

Gives me chills like disembodied teeth chatter
Oh no
That’s just me
Fitting into my shiver

In my mind there is the ghost of a boy
Who has the ghosts of his teeth
Buried under silver caps
He did not know what bling is
He just didn’t want his smile to feel missing

He did not know what it means to be ugly
And I wear the ghost of his smile

There are ghosts in the souls of our feet
That bind our shadows to our heels
To remind us that we are still alive

All things die
And die again
There are ghosts of ghosts
Finding their place
The way my breath makes peace with the wind

There is the ghost of peace
Practiced in the shaking of hands
Practiced in the lip quiver of a sigh
Fighting back tears of a victory

And there will one day be the ghost of myself
Haunting the house that I died in
Practiced in the patience
Learned from forever

No one told me that there was lightning at 4 am

How often does this happen?

Mine was the only car on the road

While driving from your apartment

And there was lightning

Instead of stars

No thunder

No people out that I could see

Just sleepy San Diego

And me

Happier than I have been in a long time

Despite the fact that I could not sleep

And the fact that I am sure parts of me are missing

And the fact that I feel the least alone when I actually am alone

I saw flashes of lightning

As I drove back to my haunted house

But for whatever reason

I was happy

And I wonder

How often does this happen?