“*******” She writes
and deletes it
“I’m Alone” She writes
and deletes it.
The best thing about texting is the delay

It’s not that you don’t say what’s on your mind.  
It’s that you don’t say the FIRST thing on your mind.

I’m tired.

I’m tired, and I’m lonely

But most of all, I am a bad poet.

They say
You are what you eat
So I pick beautiful flowers
And devour them.

Don't be afraid
They take root in my brain
pinch my eyes closed
pry my heart open
Slip seeds into my bloodstream

I devour flowers
Because they are small beautiful things
And I want to be
Beautiful
In that same fragile and wilting way.

I take them from the ground
so that one day I can
wither in embraces
And die in glass containers
On your bedside table
In your living room
Still and stuck and slow

I put them in my mouth whole
Petals tickling my tongue
Sliding down my throat
Roots melding into flesh

And they taste like sunshine and dirt
And something distinct
that feels like
Breathing

I devour them
till I have a garden growing in my stomach
Breaking across my skin

And I will keep
Devouring
Till they take root in my heart
And I am made of fragile
Beautiful
Things
That you can devour.

I'm worried you think I'm a ****,
or a *****,
or worse yet
lying.

I'm bad at putting myself into words
which is funny
because I can never stop talking.

I'm worried you think that I don't adore
that you think I'm drunk on his fingertips
that you think that I don't think about this
with careful measured thoughts
in between heartbeats.

I'm bad at showing my thinking
which is stupid
because all I do is think

I'm worried that you think he can forget you
or worse yet,
that I can.
no one can forget you, love.

I worry.
I worry about you.
which is silly
because why would you need me to worry for you.

but I'm beginning to feel.
to feel every single breath and every single blink and every single tug
I'm happy.
and I want you to be too.

I think I found myself
or a part of me, a small part of me
and it wasn’t at the peak of the mountain
that I was afraid of climbing
or on the trail
that I dragged myself up
slowly, laboriously, taking the risk and never giving up.

I didn’t learn anything in the struggle
other then how to struggle

And I didn’t learn anything in the victory
other then the power of victory in the fight

Still, I think I found a part of myself tonight
when I looked at the sky, and the cliff
and the part of my hand where yours used to be
and decided to jump.

I’ve never free fallen.
I’ve always struggled.
I’ve always thought of how hard it was to push the stone so far up that hill
only to have it roll back down again
and I’ve despaired in having to struggle
I never realized that I didn’t know how not to.

I am a fighter
I need something to fight for.

I’ve remember that again.

Somewhere on the trail, I shattered
I sent pieces of myself across the mountain
I thought I’d find them in the oasis at the peak
I thought who I need to be would be waiting for me at the end of the journey.

when I looked at the sky, and the cliff
and the part of my hand where yours used to be
and how I was not there
I jumped

and I fell
and I fell
and I am falling
but there is no where to land.

It’s just me and me and me
for miles and miles and miles

Falling                                          
          is
             just
                 like                    
                     FLYING                      
if there is no where to land.

New friends are tricky.
New friends are tricky because
we are all still a mix of have-been, have-was, am and will be,
and we don’t even know yet.
.
But, Old friends,
Old friends are like the soft patter of rain.
Or the feeling of flying down the side of the road
with only an old-*****-broken street bike
and moonlight
as your guide.
.
Old friends are like beaches and sunrise
where the clouds rush by and the sky is open
and every breeze screams freedom.freedom.freedom.free
like soft squishy couches and headpets .
They are like whispered words in the dark
that thrum not alone.not alone.not alone
in time with your heart.
.
Old friends are like the change in your heart
that takes you from no and never
to climbing mountains
and only stopping for water breaks
when you realize that
far and distant
means nothing compared to
always and forever and inseparable.
.
Yes, new friends are tricky.
But, old friends were new once.

Your throat is itchy
and you’re not sure if it’s because
the sour taste in your mouth that you just had to swallow
or if it’s because you’ve run out of things to say.

Run out of things to say? You? Ha.
You, who can wax philosophical about rugs, and black lines
And the failings of the second dimension.
No.
You have not run out of things to say.

You have simply grown tired of talking.
The medium exhausts you.
The bone weary tired creeps, slowly, up and up your spine
and never, ever, reaches your eyes.

You have not run out of things to say.
Words spill from you in torrents,
phrases  with jagged edges escape the gap
that is between your lips and fall
tumbling
to the floor.
Not saying anything at all.

It’s not that there is nothing to talk about.
It’s just that when you open your mouth
your brain spills out in droves
and you don’t flatter yourself into thinking
you think well.
I don’t think well.

I don’t think well, but I speak even worse.

It’s been a long time since I’ve opened my mouth and given a speech.

All I do is talk. All I’m doing is running out of things to say.

Inside of me, speeches
are welling up
crashing like tidal waves into
the blood/brain membrane
floral in a way that only fantasy
and spoken word
accept.
But they are real.
Real
So real that I become afraid to open my mouth.

I cannot give this speech.
I’ll leave it to the falling rain
and the icy sinew
and the folding sky.
They speak the same language

I cannot give this speech.
I can not find the word that mean what I need them to.
I cannot define my terms
I have nothing to say.

I talk to nobody.
Or, rather, I talk to the air around people
and sometimes they listen.
Normally, they don’t.
It’s not as though I am saying anything.
Or, rather, it is not as though I mean anything.

You’ve stopped lying.
But you don’t ever mean the truth.
You, whose tongue is silver: because it is malleable,
and lays people into sheets,
have run out of things to say.

And I, whose tongue is lead and carbon
reactive and sticky and tripping
am you.

And neither me, nor I, have anything to say.

This is how you write a poem.
You close your eyes.
and you forget yourself.
you let your fingers ghost over the keyboard
and you press down
whenever it strikes you.
pick a key, any key.
a real magician never reveals his trick.

This is how you write a poem.
you close your eyes.
and you dive into yourself
you pull a part of you to the surface
and you release it out into the world
whatever part of you is screaming
the loudest part of your soul
the squeaky wheel gets the oil

This is how you ruin a friendship
you let something fester in the back of your mind
you let it grow and change and push
until there is no more space for it in your head
until you've made no more space for it in your head
and you push it out through your body.

I've heard alcohol helps.

This is how you ruin a friendship
you don't think of them until it's too late
Or you don't call them on there birthday
Or you laugh while you dance on their grave
Or you think too much when you hear their name
Or you give until you've given it all away
Or you play too hard so you lose the game
This is how you ruin a friendship.

I wasn't joking about the alcohol.

It's not because it makes you do things that you don't want
You don't wake up and immediately feel ashamed or regret
It's because it takes away the part of you that thinks about other people
It's only about what you want, It's only about you
(it's my party and I'll dance if I want to)

The regret and shame sneaks in afterwards
from the same corner of your mind that the force came from
and it's not that you regret your choice.
Or that you don't maybe want it to happen again
It's just that you remember there are other people in the world.

Sometimes I hate that there are other people in the world.  

But only because other people matter so much in the end.

This is how you write a poem.
you take something in your life
you talk about it with metaphors and similes and flowery language
until your pen is falling of the page
until it's so vague not even the paper knows what you are saying
Do you understand that?
(is it crystal clear?)

Poems lack clarity.
I don't regret it.
I didn't find it weird
Actually, I kinda like it.

I'm worried that saying it so many times has made it seem like a lie
Something like me thinks the lady doth protest to much
It's not a lie
But he is not the audience of this poem
It's you.

I don't know if I need to apologize.
I'm worried I might.
I told you once that I have difficulty being a good friend
I hope you don't believe me now.
I hope you don't believe me ever

This is how you write a poem
you find a friend who writes better than you
and you try not to *****  it up for long enough to pick up a few tricks.

If I was braver
I'd tack a world map to my wall
and put a pin
in all the places that scared me

little yellow and green dots
that show me
how little I know of the world

and I'd go to everyone of those places
slowly,
through my lifetime,
and stay for a little
or a lot
until I could remove
that coloured dot
off the map on my wall

but I am not brave enough
to wake every morning
to a reminder
that I am afraid.

If I was kinder
I would leave notes
on sticky pads
with little lines of poetry
or things that remind me
of you

and I'd leave them where I know you could never see them
encoded into paintings that I hide in drawers
in languages that I know you don't yet speak

I'd fill books
with slanted lines written in blue ink
and sketches of your heart beat
and I'd keep my kindness close to my chest

but I am not kind enough
to love you
without wanting you to love me in return.

Maybe,
one day,
I will put up a world map
and put blue pins for some of the places that reminds me of you
and never explain it, even when you ask
and fill a little yellow notebook with my fears and doubts
and give it to you in a grey box
with a scarf or a sweater
or something innocuous.

and I will consider that a good start
towards wanting
without needing.

Reality is cracking at the edges.
It’s stretching itself thin trying to make room for my head.
For what resides inside my head.

And I’ll never have this conversation because you need a whole day
To wrap yourself around whatever the **** it is you have to say
But I get that you are different from who I want you to be

I like you anyway.

I need the universe to stop expanding
I need reality to crack along the fissures
Create and destroy right along the fissures
I need to believe that it exist out there somewhere
And that if I just get better the world will just stay here

I want to stay here forever.

Here, with my friends in the corners and you at my finger tips
Where I can be wrapped in my own skin and feel free
Where I can dance on the cracks of the world. suspended.

and flying.

I seek inspiration in myself.
I know that this is wrong. But still,
I dig deep, and I look for that gleaming spark,
that white star,
that I see in all of you.
I cannot find it.
.
I seek inspiration in the skies.
like poets of old and ancient scholars
but I am blinded, distracted in fact,
by the universe that is in you.
I want to bleed it out and capture it in my hands,
hold you there forever.
I cannot grasp you here.
You would think that would stop you from trying.
.
You do not yet understand how cold my hand is.
How the ice has crept in through the sinew
and frozen my fingers.
I cannot hold your hand
I lash at you with my tongue instead
cutting and biting but occasionally sweet, laughing.
You wade through those moments, waiting
catching slowly onto what I will not say
and I hope that you notice my fingers twitching
I cannot hold your hand.
But I do everyday.
.
Something in me is breaking
the stones, large and looming, take my words
and twist
till all I hear is a broken echo of hurtmehurtmehurtme.
And I do
Hurtmehurtmehurtme
.
Still, It is you (the thought of you?) that lifts my hand to the page,
And slides the pen between my white-cold fingers
And whispers write it.
Write the pain away.
And I do.
Loveyouloveyouloveyou.

They say things like friends and hold your hand
and they think things like don’t run from me  
and it echoes in the beat of your heart  
old and ancient and forever
even if it’s the speech you first heard today

It echoes against you
new and old
terrifying and safe
short and forever
like a blue sky when you can feel a storm on it’s way

the words spill from their mouth
tumbling over their upturned lip
and it’s the first time you’ve ever heard a lie  
and known it was the truth  

it’s just the ice inside your grace melting
it’s just your soul being born
It’s just friendship.
its just everything

You think it’s the kind of friendships they would write books about
if there was a battle to be won
but instead it’s just the echo of notalonefriend, iloveyoufriend
and at the end of a lifetime there is nothing just about that

Kneel at that river bend

in supplication

in silent meditation

and hold fast to the quiet whisper that say

Drink

between heartbeats

in a slow lazy way

so that it curls around you



but you look at the water

and your hands are frozen

it is not clean



maybe there is another river

or faster moving water



you rise from the riverbed

you are afraid

of the water

of the current

you can swim

but you do not know if you can stand

at the riverbed


the current is fast and unforgiving

it moves around you

through you



it does not touch you



the river moves forward

rushing

turning

roiling



it will drown you



Kneel

there is another river

there is faster moving water



but still

Kneel

**Drink

I am in love with a poet
I love the way he bends words and the world till they tie into his own view
The way he changes reality so that it fits what he thinks the world should be
Not what it is.
I'm in love with a poet. But I've never written a single poem.
I feel like poetry is a state of mind.
He's a poet.
He is a poet.
I grow weary of poetry

My poems always work in large weaving arcs
They make no sense. Changing meaning faster then I write
I don't understand them.
In short, my poetry *****
But still. It's poetry

I wonder if I say it out loud does that change it.
Do I change it.
Have I changed?
Do I want to.
Does saying something change anything?
I adore you? I love you? I miss you?
Stop.
He knows that already.

Poetry scares me.
So I am bad at it.

You have to learn to let go.
You have to fall into it.
You have to have something to fall into.

I am in love with a poet.
And he's in love with poetry