i wanted to document
the arches of your cupid's bow
onto a thousand polaroids
and plaster them on my ceilings.
i wanted to carve a renaissance sculpture
based on the image i had of you
imprinted in my brain,
make you out of marble
and put you in a castle.
i think that when i look into the sky
i see the same constellations
that sit in your eyes
and i believe that you have become
my worst habit,
worse than chain smoking
in parking lots
and worse than sleeplessness.
you are an addiction in a body,
a hurricane that swept me away.

*(a.m.c.)

"I'll make a picture of you" I told her
"Are you a painter?" she asked.
"No, but I can paint you in words" I answered

the day i stole thunder from the sky
was the day the lord snatched up my grace
and pried it from my fists.
because you can't rumble,
and rage,
and storm
with the power of ten thousand volts
without admitting that the power isn't yours.
i guess the grace i borrowed
was something i needed more
than thunder and lightning.
so i traded in my electric hands
and begged to receive his grace once again.
although i'm anything but worthy
and although i've wandered into the deepest waters,
he smiled at me
and said "i've been waiting all this time. come home."

i'll wander from home every day of my life
but i find myself sprinting back
and he welcomes me like i'm his prodigal daughter;
lost
but found.

*(a.m.c.)

four years ago i became a carpenter
and started to build a wall
between myself and the world.
people came and went
and tried to take out the bricks
like they were playing jenga.
and some people walked up to me
with a sledgehammer in their hand
and knocked me down with the wall.
as the years went by
my wall got taller
and the people became fewer
until there was no one left.
i'm starting to rethink my blueprints
because it's getting lonely over here
and i forgot the windows.

*(a.m.c.)

i dream in colors of the sky;
with sandpaper hands
over a glossy finish
and bluebonnet fields
in a golden sunset.
my brain is hot-wired to be alone;
i don't want you painting
my skies over
with white.
i'll paint them black
in the morning,
but i will poke holes
so i can still see the stars.

*(a.m.c.)

imitations of rose-red sonnets
sprung across your face.
the moon rises as you fall,
the tides still rise and crash on the shore.
planets are orbiting around my head,
brain spinning in a colossal daze.
the smell of salt is a cross-stitch embroidery pillow
in my hair,
your grandmother's words echoing
and dribbling inside your skull.
pause for the dead and remember their faces,
remember dirt rubbed into your brothers skin
and the butterfly wings painted
on your sisters face,
toothless smiles and calloused hands.
mothers and fathers rip open and scream,
flashing lights on the street,
sound of sirens,
"it's nothing, he'll be home soon."
he's in pieces on the road,
stop signs lingering in his conscious moments.
the last thing he remembered was
the girl with the long hair and crooked smile,
smoke entering his lungs
and inhaling with welcome.
your speedometer still twitches
even when you're static,
the stars still glow
even when you're gone.

*(a.m.c.)

and when you're bleeding out,
becoming an addict and an insomniac,
the rain is a salve to your brokenness.
it will chill your bones and soothe you,
will become your tonic and your medicine,
it will sing you to sleep when there's no one else.

there's something about a wet road
and a dark sky
that puts you to peace, and takes the graveyard out of you.

there's something about lightning
and thunder that shakes your bones
that takes you out of hell and puts you back on earth.

with menace and terrifying power,
the sky yells at you,
not in the same way a person does,
but its yells and screams put a quiet in your soul,
to where you can whisper back to the sky,
          "it
           is
         well"

*(a.m.c.)

you hurt like ache
and adderall
and arnica

you hurt like bruises
and battle scars
and broken bones

you hurt like cuts
and *******
and countryside

you hurt like death
and destruction
and die-hard

you hurt like electricity
and emergency rooms
and edit-undo

you hurt like *******'s
and fire
and fallen trees

you hurt like garbage cans
and gonorrhea
and gang ****

you hurt like hell
and holes in the road
and heartache

you hurt like israel
and illness
and ignition fumes

you hurt like jaundice
and jugular veins
and jack in the box

you hurt like karma
and kissing
and kerosine lamps

you hurt like lightning
and love
and literary terms

you hurt like mother
and mary
and moses

you hurt like nakedness
and nosebleeds
and nervous breakdowns

you hurt like oil spills
and old yeller
and oral quizzes

you hurt like parkinson's
and parties
and panic

you hurt like queens
and questions
and quantum physics

you hurt like rogaine
and roses
and rope burn

you hurt like solar power
and stomach aches
and ***

you hurt like teeth cleanings
and tar
and tobacco

you hurt like ulcers
and underwear
and unrequited love

you hurt like viruses
and venus fly traps
and vapor rub

you hurt like warning signs
and weight gain
and war

you hurt like x-rays
and x marks the spot
and xoxo

you hurt like your mom
and your dad
and you

you hurt like zig zags
and zero
and zip ties

*(a.m.c.)

why are sad poems
easier to write than
happy ones

*(a.m.c.)