There is a city that prefers to be lit by stars
Sporting an abandoned gas station shelter.
Where a mattress finds a roof. A fence finds a fortress.
And in this city with no streetlights there is a house.
With three rooms, a kitchen, and a yard filled with sharp things.
There is also a roof. There is also a mattress. There is also a fence.
There is no one there.
But the cockroach that lives in the makeup drawer in the bathroom
With the mirror that's too high on the wall.

Arrows raining down on our feet,
And yours aren't covered.
None hit our heads but the bottoms of your feet blister.
So take my sole to save your soul,
Because we can't control these arrows or how far we have to walk.
We can't tell our feet to stop blistering and moving
When there's work to be done in places
That aren't here.
Thousands of tiny arrows make their way from our feet to our shirts,
Just over our left *******,
Where we thought our hearts were no longer.

I don't paint.
But tonight, in the crowd.
Amid the drunk beards and the gentle, bobbing women.
With cell-phones seen raised in the air from every angle and every perspective.
While five men in hats danced and sang on a stage.
Light beamed from their faces and the ground shook with every kick of the drum.
My father on one side, my sister on the other.
My body moving left and right.
My hand on my chest and my lungs on fire
My eyes closed and my chin up.
I wore a sweater with a paint stain on the sleeve.

All I ever wanted was to be unique
But here I am so replaceable it's disgusting.
To say I'm special is a joke. What makes me special?
You can't find anything in me that you can't find
better
In someone else.
You think you know me.
Think you love me.
Think I'm "different"
For now.
But everyone does at some point.
Then you realize how normal I am.
Like a rainbow it's a trick of the light.
Put me in the dark, you'll see how invisible I really am.
Move me to the darkness, really,
And you'll leave me there.
I'm the lamp you lit then put out and hid away..
I'm that trend you followed that lost it's style.
I'm insignificant.
At least don't lie to me and tell me I'm beautiful.
Don't tell me how special I am, or how I'm better than others.
Better than the other "unique" person I replaced.
I'd sooner die than hear that.
Save myself the trouble that'll come when you make me believe it.
Make me believe my dream came true
My perverse dream came true.

Everyone always told him life was beautiful
No one said why, though. Nonetheless he knew it.
They, all of them, all of you, were preaching to the choir.
He could tell you a million and one reasons why life, the earth, everything
Was beautiful.
He knew them now by heart.
He'd start with the sunshine hitting his skin in the summers, and somehow move onto the rain in June on his windshield.
Then to the way the cold flirted with him in December...
Nibbling on his ears and kissing his cheeks whenever and wherever he went.
He'd talk about smiles from strangers on the tram, at the market,
And, his personal favorite, in the library.
There he'd read words from rebellious souls who, like him, understand that life was more beautiful than anything or anyone that came out of Italy, Brazil, or Spain.
They'd say, and he'd read, about how life was beautiful in the way that a child with a gap between her teeth is beautiful.
In the most perfectly flawed way.
Life is beautiful because of the way a clock chimes every 15 minutes, and the way everyone depends on it.
It's beautiful because of the sound a pencil makes as it vandalizes a blank page of a journal.
It's because of the way everyone knows it, and falls madly in love with it.
He knew it, but they didn't. And they never would.
They just told him that life was beautiful.
Over and over and over again until he was sure he didn't deserve to live in that light.
And he ran away from it into the arms of tragedy.
Still beautiful, but all the more flawless and terrifying.
And there he went, and there he stayed.

I will always be with you, I'll watch you as you grow.
In life I loved you dearly, much more than you could know.
I'll watch you as you grieve to ease your troubled mind.
When you feel you're walking all alone know I won't be far behind.
I'll watch you fall in love, and smile when you smile.
I'll be in your wedding party and the eyes of your first child.
As you grow old I'll carry you, when you break I'll be your crutch
And when you feel so very tired, to my hands you will clutch.
And I promise we will meet again, I'll be waiting for that day.
Until we see each other I'll stay with you everyday.
I'll hold your hand when you depart and embrace your final sigh
Together we'll go to heaven, and never again we'll say goodbye.

Do you remember when we drank coffee together
That one morning? And I was
Writing you a letter, but I stopped when you walked in
So we drank coffee together and laughed.
Then separated.
And that was the last time you and I have laughed together
And I miss your smile. And I miss your laughter.
And I wish there was vanilla coffee cream for this bitter taste
You leave in my mouth and in my mind.
But you just walk away. You want to live alone.
So I think I have to accept somewhere along this road
Dark and lonely and desperate for a streetlight,
That my coffee is too bitter for you.
And while I like my coffee bitter
Because it makes the sweet things, the vanilla and the cinnamon
So much sweeter,
You are looking for a roast that is mellow. That will not
Challenge you. That will not
Test you.
And I can't promise you that.
But you will always be welcome back to me
To drink coffee. Even when you're bitter. Even when you're angry.
And I will make it sweet for you.

We're all lions here
And we're comparing the size of our teeth as if it's the teeth
and not the bite
That's the most deadly.
We're all swallowed by our pride here.
Apologizing left and right to make ourselves feel better about mistakes that aren't ours
We don't own them.
The moment the "I'm sorry" escapes from my lips it takes with it a
Solid and measurable piece of my soul.
I am waiting.
A lion in a pride of my own bounding on two feet
Looking down at your barred teeth grinning.
Because I will not be owned
Or enslaved
Because adolescence is a stage and I am not an actress in this play.
When the king of the jungle gives up his power where does it go?
Not to the juvenile. Not to the child.
To the one who hunts for it. Who grins while others growl and feasts while others sleep.
I will take it.
And you will whimper before me.

First, an introduction
As you know my name is Kasey Shores. As you don't know I'm a student at the University of Arizona. I'm fairly studious, love to write and am a serial intern. I love to work.
I have been so blessed to have so many wonderfully talented people on this website follow me, like my poems and encourage my work. For that I thank each and every one of you.
Now, a note.
One of my many jobs is as a campus representative for a great company called Serengetee. They buy fabrics from around the world and sell them as pocket shirts. "Frocket shirts" as my good friend calls them. This company is charitable, supporting over 50 causes in 50 countries.
A Request
As a representative I'm asked to complete a rep project. I wanted to do something I could excel at. I wanted to incorporate poetry.
So I've created the collection Words of the World, which is under my collections and is entirely public. Each poem I post is inspired by a fabric and a cause.
I would very much appreciate if you would all consider following the collection and contributing based on your own Serengetee inspiration or any act of kindness. It's a collection about the world, for the world, helping the world.
Thank you all!

Shes sitting there across from you with her tired eyes clouded over and staring at you without a single word. Pins drop as you remember when you made her smile, made her spirits soar to what she knows she can't reach anymore. You remember when she fell asleep with you on her mind, now she's needing sleep she cannot find. The corners of mouth no longer form a smile, the corners of her eyes drip with tears.
And you don't know what to tell her because you know you've said too much. And she's tired of asking but she needs what you can't seem to let go, what you can't be anymore.
Fingers pointing into silent glances into tears falling ******* the floor. No moonlight finds its way to you, the nights black and blue with remorse.
The sun still refuses to shine while morning creeps in to greet your cold stares. And she remembers how you made her smile and wants nothing but to feel what she fears you can't make her feel anymore.

I don't rhyme anymore.
Walking home in the dark,
Holding hands with strangers and
Falling.
Painfully; shocking my body
As it cracks and whips when it hits the ground.
The sunlight beating off of my straw hat.
Shoes that are too small
People that talk too much.
And people whose tongues are raw with bite marks.
The Word of the Lord.
Sitting, standing, crawling, drinking,
Coffee and tea.
Outside stairwells at midnight
Trying to breath and waiting for peppermint.
My life does not rhyme.
So why should I?

This is a story set in stone taken apart like pebbles and thrown into the sea
About a young girl who didn't know that she'd grow up one day to be me.
And every one she's ever known who doesn't understand
How much hate and love has been cause by her two average sized hands.
It's like her heart was always aching, like her chest was calling out.
And her fingers always itched to write to find what it was about.
A boy would come, a boy would go, a man may come and stay.
But life, it seemed, was against her, and would put obstacles in her way.
Space and time, her heart's bane, reminded her each hour
that minutes, seconds, days, and months will **** each precious flower.
With no water, sun, soil or love her heart would beat out dry
Would stop it's needy stretch, would stop trying to touch the sky.
This is a tale about a girl who didn't know that she would take
The weight of all her heart's wishes and its aches.
Upon her sturdy shoulders and she trudged through space and time
So that farther in her journey she could jump instead of climb.

There's a complex on the corner of three streets
Just south of something and north of something else.
One time a girl stood there crying in the rain all alone
Waiting to get picked up by anyone who wouldn't ask where her tears came from.
All she could say was she was sorry.
At night there's this dog that barks for no reason
No matter how loud you are, or how quiet you are. It must just be the flowers.
They look like a 13-year-old girl's experiment with make-up.
And they smell like dust in your nose.
Follow the road north to the pharmacy and the convenience store
Conveniently next to a windowless brothel and an indie movie theater.
Follow it south and you'll get an organic market, loose tea shops, and gelato.
Funny how that happens.
If you stand on this corner you'll see cars lining the street in every direction
Squealing and shaking with each extra body shoved inside to enjoy the beautiful dumpster view.
And maybe a pool that no one uses.
There's a complex on the corner of three streets where Atlas goes to shrug his shoulders.
And complain about how heavy his job is.
Loudly tending to his messed up joints.
Drinking with passers-by and sleeping with women who came by to massage his limbs.
Gently, tenderly, and maybe a bit rough every now and then.
Atlas lives, owns, and runs this whole **** town.
And let me tell you, he's in great shape.

There comes a beautiful point where you let go.
Words become insignificant and blur together like tongues of fire or grains of sand.
People stop being people. They stand idle and demanding  like traffic signs.
Everyday-- always there-- expecting you to understand their stupendous.
Once you've let go of individuality, and embrace all of this,
You'll rub your calloused hands together, now feeling-less from all those years of hanging on.
You'll wrap your mind around your neck like a plain scarf, ready to walk
Out into the freezing insanity that is apathy.
And it'll all be beautiful again.

My dear,
If I can teach you anything
It's that people will hurt you.
Shh, no, not on purpose, mostly,
Simply that's what people do.
And yes, you also will hurt people
Probably many in your years
You must learn you can't please everyone.
that should save you countless tears.
But in regards to who you are?
You're the greatest you that's ever been.
Sure, you have your faults and vices
But who on earth is without sin?
No one, not even you.
And you know what else is great?
You, You're the greatest you I've ever known
Or will know at this rate.
You're uniquely what no one else is
You're what no one else can be
And though people will hurt you
(Just as they've hurt me)
You should know ten times as many love you
And they'd travel many miles
To hear you laugh and see your eyes
And they'd pay to make you smile.

We always leave before the sun leaks through the faded curtains
Throwing clothes over our raw skin so the sky doesn't see us.
And you mostly pretend to sleep soundly on the bed, inching towards to crease where I fall asleep.
Because you're okay with leaving.
And because I've done it enough to prefer it.
Dances like ours aren't meant for the light of the day or the twinkle of the stars
But for the pitch black, utter, endless darkness of a windless night.
You are a cold breeze on my otherwise warm afternoon, giving me goosebumps and making me shiver.
Something I haven't decided if I like or not.

We’re all born with our eyes closed to what we learn to be the world.
Our sounds begin with crying, our fingers bunched and curled.
We’re taught our eyes should open and our hands should follow suit.
Our lips we’re told to quiet, our lungs we’re taught to mute.
We’re taught rules are to be followed, enforced calmly with intent.
Our freedoms and our thoughts are forced and every feeling bent.
We grow into what we are made of and what we’re meant to be
These people born with their eyes closed now teaching us to see.
A potluck set of people and we’re told to pick just one
Forever and for always our individuality is undone
Over time it comes back around and soon we have to teach
Our own little entrées that bunched up hands can’t reach
Closed eyes are not able to watch and loud mouths don’t ever listen
We bend and break and force our little dishes until they glisten.
We age and rot and give up on what our hearts once dreamed
And dying we may realize that it’s not what it had seemed.
Saint Peter looks inside his book and asks us how we are
And crying with our eyes closed we ask our lucky stars
Why never in our lives we questioned what we were
Here we are at God’s front door and we finally concur
Hands bunched up and fingers curled, eyes shut and kept closed tightly
The world we lived on and left for here was horrid and unsightly.
Yet every morning we woke up and our eyes opened to the sun
We've been quietly observing a world that’s vastly overdone.

I dare you.
For one month.
Find something perfect about yourself.
Not unique.
Not odd.
Not ugly.
Not weird.
Just perfect, in your eyes.
The only eyes that matter.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
So behold your own beauty.

This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.

He knew--
Not well, but he knew--
What she was.
That she was the steam coming off a cup of coffee
No cream-- no sugar--
Bitter & Dark.
And she would rather drink alone than drink what she wasn't
What she didn't want.
But little by little he added
Some grains of sugar.
Some drips of cream
Until she was cool and light.
And now he's sad to see there's no steam.
She lost who she is, he forgot what she was,
And they just don't know each other anymore.

The young are foolish and blind.
Pretending each figure looming over us is Jesus or Barack Obama
Whispering sweet infinities down our necks and into our ears.
"I want you. I want you. I want your body. I want you."
Everyone looks the same in the dark?
But the comfort of a panic attack suffocating you in silence doesn't happen with him.
So explain why, when satan throws me down, I'm supposed to pretend to want it.

He's still new.
Sipping on the same soda from the same restaurant after two years
Wearing the same shirt, same colors, same car. Two years later.
He has a new job-- new watch.
But the same haircut.
The same drunken goodnight kiss on the same mattress we've slept on after going to all of the same bars.
Paying with the same credit card, ordering the same food.
Falling asleep the same way.
But after two years
Every good morning feels so new, every good night so wonderful
And he still looks at me like I'm brand new every time.

Breathe.
In and out. In and out.
And let the tide wash over you.
You cannot:
Run away.
Go backwards.
Regret.
Or take back.
You can only breathe
And wait.
Until the tide washes over you.
Until the wind stops blowing.
Until the rain stops pouring.
You can only close your eyes.
You can only breathe.

He would stand in the doorway every morning if it meant he could
Memorize the way she cradled the coffee in both of her hands.
And how her mouth kissed her cup hello, still too hot to drink.
He hated how the sunrise always ran over her face before he could even open his eyes to watch her breathe in the day,
But she made up for it in how her feet never truly touched the ground
And her perfume took residence in his pillow so even when she left
She was still there.
It wasn’t hard for him to realize that she was as much a part of his home as the socks that always found their way back under the bed.
And he’d never be able to look at that old, goodwill coffee machine again
Without thinking of the weight of her presence rising and falling on his chest.

I am so bruised and broken.
So betrayed by my own soul.
My mind partners with the forces
that keep me from being whole.
And I remember being happy-
Even happy to be sad
But there's nothing in my heart now,
My spirit has gone bad.
I long to be the one,
To be perfect in someone's eyes
Someone who sees me for who I am
And shows me how to fly
I wish I could make mistakes again
Because I could have a reason to remorse
To myself I can't apologize,
My edges are too coarse.
I love so free and open
I fall so hard, so fast
For things that break and shatter
For things I know won't last.
I see only good in people
But only bad in me
Because I work so hard to achieve something
I know I cannot be.

I want you to buy us a house on second street.
The one with the bed right there on the porch.
Twinkling lights overhead
Surrounded by a dense garden that definitely doesn't belong in this
***-hole filled, trailer trash neighborhood.
There are at least three cacti growing out front, and the house is so tan
Like it's spent way too much time in the sun.
You can go to work every morning with a cup of fresh coffee in your hand
Wrapped in a lipstick stained note saying
I love you honey
Make some money
I'll be here when you come home.
I can spend my days playing violin to the weeds
Writing love notes to strangers to pay the bills.
Or maybe a few sad songs, depending on the rain.
When you get home I'll have a new poem for you
And we can drink iced tea on the porch
And fall asleep under the stars.

He ferociously chained himself to the wrong fence
Protesting a battle that never happened on a ground that never wept.
The fence was glad for company she kept the battle raging
The blind protester yelled and screamed and chained himself more tightly.
And the ground stained with blood of soldiers
Fruitless, scarred and dead
Watched the blind protester weep and watched the land smile at her instead.
The ******* limps towards the sea to drown before she dies.
As the land the protester missed did flee
From all the fences lies.
And weep she did the land did weep and lament the passing friend.
As the protester blindly yelled in pain until the very end.

There was a loud pop,
Then there was chaos
Like the very word "silence" had ceased its existence
For no other reason
But to be lusted after.
And the man with blood flowing from his head
Lying face down on the pavement
Saw not his own life in a flash
But that of a daughter he never knew
Lived out a full 90 year lifetime.
Whom he was able to love with a love
That could only stem from absolute
Deafening
Chaos.

It's not stealing.
More like glorified borrowing
Of things that glitter
Like stars in the fresh
Alcoholic
Night sky.
Or better yet.
Merciful adoption
Of the abandoned
Reaching out
to my
More than willing fingers.
I was antiquing in the future
For things that decorate
The background
Of nights that represent
Desperation and regret.
It's not stealing.
It's *claiming memories

I like
Coffee
As a motif
For reasons I don't even know.
I think sometimes it's because wine comes and goes
But Coffee.
Coffee.
Coffee
I have every night.
To keep me up thinking about the
Bitter taste
That life leaves in my mouth.
Sometimes I think that it's coffee,
The one thing I have in common
With the rest of humanity,
That keeps me alive.
Maybe I need to be awake to feel
What coffee does to me
What you don't do to me.
You should do to me.
Coffee.
Coffee doesn't confuse me.
And coffee tastes the same.
And coffee comes
And coffee stays.
And wine.
And people,
They just don't.

Coffee shop boy sitting at a wooden table with headphones tucked gently into his ears
Sipping espresso or tea from a paper cup that says "Caution: Hot Contents"
Which makes him think desperately of her clothes, and the wind-kissed skin she wears underneath
Wishing he could be the air and wrap his soul around her with each of her steps.
He takes a sip of his latte or black coffee, and feels the burn as it travels down his throat
While it warms his heart he looks out at the night sky framed by the coffee shop window
He glances at the moon and all of the stars and prays they light her path and keep her safe
In envy he realizes the stars look upon her every night, when she wears the moonlight around her face
With her head resting against a pillow, eyes closed and dreaming things the day can't contaminate.
And he wishes beyond hope he could be there to write them down like a to-do list kept secret from her
Until completed he presents them to her, with a check mark on his own heart to show that it, too, is hers.
But since he cannot do these things he picks up his Americano or Cocomo and takes another sip
And he lets the banging of the drums and deliberate pounding of the guitar put her out of his mind
Until later at night he picks up a pen, half-full with ink, and writes once again about himself
Hoping she'll read each word and fall as in love with him, imperfections, flaws and humanity
As he is with her beauty, words, breath, heart, soul and spirit.

We are lions in cages.
Extroverts anonymous. Facades of hopeful futures.
We        think        differently
Because we are so special
The ball and chain around her ankle is a ten pound book-bag
Portable computer. Portable phone.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Who whips the lions?
The kings and the queens of the jungle.
Are ******.

Five, four, three, two... too late.
For any of this. Too late for anything
Too late for love, too late for lust.
The park smells like emptiness every morning
Feels like rain on a perfect day.
I hate the rain.
Dripping on my glasses.
I hate you. Running through my mind.
Five, six, seven, eight... hate this thinking of you
All the time. Nothing but your lips
On my neck,
You're hands wrapped around mine and me
Making up stories about who I am
And you. Already. Leaving. Without me.
Because crazy is contagious. And that's what I am.
And you're afraid of me.
And I'm afraid of me too.
But all that counts is us counting down
To when it'll all
Be. Positive. Again.
So drive away and don't look back.
I'll walk home in this rain.
One day you'll count on me.

He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?

Despite the fact that he doesn't drink coffee--
he hates the way it smells--
He sits in whatever coffee shop I am,
And watches me sip my coffee black.
So my soul has decided that this is love,
That this is truly love,
And I never had a say in the matter at all.

What solace do any of us have in love and the misery it presents?
It is said that everyone makes mistakes,
But who of us repents?
Which of us compare to Angels?
Whose demons stray not far?
Who of us leaves their pain at the door while others' define who they are?
There is no peace to find in falling
For what falls must hit an end.
Be wary and realize the harder you fall the less likely it is you will mend.
Falling itself is inevitable
We are all selfish things.
We only give love to get more love back
And feel like Life's Queens and Kings.
Then reality comes out of nowhere
Like swift and sudden bad news.
You are struggling in a black and white world to see any colors or hues.
So here you sit and ponder your fall
Surveying the now broken path
Aching from the brokenness in your heart
Feeding now off of your mind and its wrath.
I warn you again do not do it
In love there's no peace to be found.
Only fall if your heart isn't beating
Or your lungs aren't making a sound.

'Tis better, they say, to have loved and lost than to have never
Truly
Loved at all.
To love in a way that fans a fire in your soul the likes of which no forest on earth, no volcano on mars
Has ever experienced.
And why love at all?
At the end of every path there's a giant elm tree sticking its bitter head out of the soft, white ground as you coast the ups and downs holding tightly to the reigns
Trying vainly to steer.
There's red in her hair.
And red in the snow beneath you. Around you. Inside of you. Coming from you.
Because.
'Tis better to risk your life to be with her forever than to live in the silence of creaking floorboards
With living martyrs wrapped in wrinkles and pale eyes always on you.
To die.
Together.
Because of love than to live with anything else.
Often you lose. But that's why it's a risk.

How do you know
What is meant for you?
In prayer and meditation you often find your wants.
Less often you find your desires
And rarely your heart tells you what it needs.
I need
What I can't have.
What isn't mine to take.
What has been offered and rejected.
What makes my heart grow.
I need what she needs more than me.
And what she has worked harder for than I.
I need what she wants so desperately she has staked claim to.
Before it has settled into her life.
I need, I want, I desire.
She deserves.

No, I will not blame the explorer,
Because I have been there.
Because I have sailed my broken ship
Through rough waters
On to the rocky shore
And watched the harsh winds tear to shreds what I'd worked so hard creating.
I remember the heartbreak-
I still have the bruises-
And I could not leave again.
But I remember
And because of that I am certain
Of what you could not possibly know.
And that's worth travelling the world for.

We're two feathers from the same bird,
tail and wing.
You can't tell when we're floating together
Which fell first, and which followed
Or even
What happened to the bird.
All we know is that some young thing will grip us in his tiny hands,
Pick us up from the ***** ground
And hold us together in-between two pudgy fingers
Imagining he can fly because of us.

February is tomorrow
Is October and is yesterday.
The winds start to chill and I can't find sleep.
So I'll walk down the dark streets to the corner
And wait for nothing and no one.

Silence greets the drifter as she steps lightly on the cement
Hoping to create a footprint deep enough to leave a mark.
But instead creating a slight wind that taps windows of sleeping scouts
Dreaming of leaving. Waking to nothing.

Sleep can't find the wicked and the wicked can't find sleep.
Insomnia strikes again and this time
It may stay.

How could it happen that you meet a person
And in one short moment
You can feel them rattle every bone in your body
So the rest of your time is spent dousing the flames they sparked inside you
And hoping they're doing the same.

We floated down the river with aluminum in our hands and the sun
burning our hearts.
Left the day roaming the streets in heels and shorts by the light of the moon.
Jumping off cliffs and laughing at the stars lighting up the sky.
How silly we were.
To have loved like we were sixteen again but with minds knowing that we're not sixteen anymore.
And that summer will end. Bills have to be paid. Work has to be done.
Love is not a priority unless you're sixteen.
But everything feels so real floating down the river in the Arizona summer.
Even dreams.

He said "I'm moving to Ohio.
Won't be long now.
It's a thousand degrees inside of this train and all I got
Is this coffee you gave me.
See you're from this land
With an office, and air conditioning.
And a job.
But all I got is this cup of coffee you gave me."
I said "what's in Ohio?"
He said "nothing. But here I lost $4,000 for smoking some ****.
Just a itty-bitty joint"
Then he motioned with his fingers. No more than the scar on my elbow.
"and that DUI." He adds
Under his breath.
"Yes ma'am. I'm moving to Ohio.
One day I'll see you on the news and I'll say
'I know that girl. She gave me a free cup of coffee, iced.'
And I'll be so proud of you.
I'll say 'I met that girl in a thousand degree train'.
Sure, Ohio ain't no L.A.,
But neither is this place."

Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.

I searched through every word
In every language spoken and unspoken
Spanning continents
Through time and space
And couldn't find one acceptable enough to replace
The one you took from the tip of my tongue
When you kissed me good morning
And left me breathless.

One day not far in the future
I'll remember how I have grown
Fondly I'll walk through the tragedies
and the heartbreak that have shown
That some people cannot be made good,
Their cuts and scrapes are too deep.
Scars have formed on their hearts
Desperately inching towards sleep.
I'll pray for the brightest smiles.
I'll think of those laughing the most.
They're the ones desperate for love.
They're the ones living as ghosts.
I'll tell my children and grandchildren
That not every smile is warm;
Not every hand is worth holding
Some showers are often a storm.
Steer clear of those with hatred.
Never mistake them for misunderstood.
Grudges spread war and unhappiness.
From them I have learned nothing good.
I'll tell them what my mother told me
And what I've learned over time.
When you're trapped in the valley of shadows
Think nothing other than climb.

Hate me.
Like every word I've uttered has cursed your name.
Every laugh has been at your expense.
Every smile a plot against you.
Even before I met you I want you to hate me.
My life has led to you.
And now we're sitting in a room
While you're silently seething, burning
With this awkward attempt at che sera, at live and let live,
At Apathy.
You know how I hate that.
I told you to hate me!
Do so! In the grandest display of passionate fury to be trapped inside of these four walls.
Make your words fly like daggers towards my very life
And blaze and scorch the very skin I use for protection.
Throw me to the wall with a growl in your voice that makes everything inside of me
Tremble.
And I will disappear.
I have patiently waited for your hatred.
Since you first looked into my eyes and told me.
So long as the sun rises and sets I will continue to wait.
So just hate me loudly already.

He is made up entirely of perfection
The boy who without any flaws, they called him.
With as much heart as soul, as much soul as mind, and as much mind as strength.
The way he carried himself was perfection.
Steady, step-by-step, looking neither down at his feet or up at the sky
Nor straight ahead
But perfectly in front of him with attentive eyes that didn't search the crowd.
He sat when he needed to, stood when he needed to,
And knelt down only to God.
Each word he used on paper or in voice was riddled with kindness and honesty, and deliberation
As if he had dedicated his whole life to finding that word, to use it in such a way
As to share it with you in that moment.
Truly he spent his time thinking about words and meanings,
So that each word he spoke and thought had meaning
Nobody knew that he was lonely, and the words were to him more than words
But a way to describe, but a code, but a message in a bottle
With limited time to speak and ears to hear,
Words chosen perfectly for each occasion to introduce himself
To perhaps his soul mate.
But he was made of perfection, whose soul-mate didn't exist
Whose soul-mate was too imperfect to tell him she heard him when he said
In his backwards code
That he was in love with the sky and the sun, the moon and the stars
And wanted nothing more than someone to walk with at night.

It's hard to be a hopeless romantic
In a sea of hell-fire and friction.
Maybe I'm in the wrong place.