Grasping greedy claws for brilliance
nicotine, alcohol, smoke
trying to choke out brilliance
through these substances
variegated like a jangling ring of keys
to an enlightened door.
But the more I try to **** down
each little chemical, I feel
emptier, drained
and my strained imagination
leans on reality for support.

And I tell  myself that there is always time,
another tomorrow like a promise
or an I.O.U.
and that shining tomorrow will be
so effortlessly new
drenched in drugs
and sweat
and nostalgia
and I'll be present
and there
and full,
pulling on the sleeve of the almost known,
the call that could reach my phone.

And tomorrow I'll be thin
and weight as much as
smoke.
Tomorrow all those lies I spoke
will be true, and my selfish wants
will no longer be daunted by
my crippling doubt.
Tomorrow will be without error or pain
or disappointment, or that same monotony.
Tomorrow, that cool spring morning, will renew
Trust me, and forget the truth.

I want to be as light as vaporous smoke
     Maybe then
        I could surround you,
              float wordlessly to you,
                  and fill you.
         You couldn't catch me, sliding
            between the lines of your hand.
                 But I think that
                  you would only grasp more.
I will be as light as mist,
   as fog,
   as blissful nothingness.
       Try and catch me with jars,
           but I will be everywhere
           and I will be everything.


I will never be as light as gas.
Gravity puts his foot down
and you pass around my
solid form.
And I look so longingly
at the clouds spinning in a storm.
Maybe I could be a cloud,
high overhead and drench you
or even
strike you dead.

My bones are filled like licorice
and my brain is marshmallow
under heat.
You're eating away at me.

You shake off little scraps of self
that I follow, grasp with two hands.
You leave enough to make me wonder,
but not enough to understand.

And from my sugary lips,
a thousand sweet requests,
trying to drown the bitterness
and keep the sour repressed.

But you're coating my skin,
dulcet and sickly and heavy
and all that's left of my sweet intent
are the bugs nibbling at me.

these are the moments
        it's said. the quiet
the grass, the dirt, beneath
      me.
       the breeze a touch cold
these are the seconds the
  transient frame-by-frame
               animations slowed
a thousand fold.
       Everyone is connected
    I swear life is a game  
             of limbo of
              cat's cradle. I swear
                       these are the
            pauses
               the breaks the
                 breaths in between.
                          all the chains:
                 these chords, these connections, these links
        curled around our ankles.
                   I swear.
                  these are the moments
                       i'm alone.

sleep that is not really sleep but half-lidded existence
and again, indifference that tightens
like summer clothes on a winter body.

pillowed flesh that never cares and
a greasy face who stares dully at
its twin who is a stranger.

angry, angry for a moment and
tears, rips, sobs
then desolate, desolate for a moment and

sleeps, sleeps, sleeps.

sliding into a hollow place where it is dry
and the rain is outside and it trickles to that
solitary holding cell where pliant curves are a thousand miles away.

desperate, desperate for a moment and
whisper, utter, scream
then lonely for a moment

nothing, nothing, nothing

I am convinced
    that when I was young,
         I nearly died.
I very nearly did.

And my soul,
   cast from my body,
was gone.
      My radiant, lovely form
          composed of collar bones and smooth hair;
I've lost it.

I have scoured all day
    and prowled by night,
searching for my beautiful bones.

Instead I have fallen
   into this body. This flesh knotted around me.
It is foreign, rough,
  and I hate it. I hate it.
      Where is my true self?

When I am keener, when I am stronger,
when I am faster, fitter, better,
   I will find my lost limbs and
       forgotten features. I will transcend this mediocrity
which is two sizes too small.

This is not me,
   this body bought on sale.
  
I'm afraid to feel otherwise.

Every moment blurs into a bend
of semi-reality, a question of
recollection. A thread fraying at the ends.
My heart pounds in a flurry,
and I'm in a frantic hurry
to dream my life a way and whisper nothings--
not even sweet--
and to disappear as soon as we meet
inside myself and inside a heart of amber,
in nectarine stagnation
of my own creation, balancing on the thick cable of separation
between thoughts and action, too afraid to fall into either.

Not a wallflower, but a wall indeed
caught in the mire of my own selfish loneliness.
Can you see me there? With my eyes in kind forgetfulness
and my hair cut short to show my face,
but finding it an empty place which is a cardboard front to my sagging edifice.
Oh god, I'm so afraid of being dull,
yet the harder I push, the more I pull.

I feel like I am a glacier on the run,
forced to move, afraid of the sun.
My bed is as cold, a glacial sheet
and I draw it up to my chin.
Within my head there's a circus of love,
clowns with painted faces and mirrors ten feet high.
And sometimes when I'm alone I cry and point my finger in my chest.
Always knowing why feel alone.

Is it possible to doubt yourself as much as I?
I kissed a girl once and felt blank
and I wondered why, and when
I found I sank to my knees and prayed
to my atheist god.
I am so ashamed, and with every rising sun my heart sinks in turn.
Why do my thoughts think and my courage fail
on the brink of something deep and terrifying?

These thoughts creep up on me in the night:
seethe from my skin and lay limp upon the street.
I'll play my music loud so they can't compete.

I wonder too often if I've lived my life all wrong.
Sometimes I'm lost, sometimes I play along.
I've burned myself and I itch at my knotted brand,
wishing I could change it at a command.
     Too simple, too stupid to wish scars away.
What would they say? That thought paralyzes me, keeps me static and in ice.

What is the price for the sin of lying to oneself?
And where do I begin?