I've got a sandpaper face,
Burned, calloused hands,
And a stone for a heart.

You speak in velvet,
You write in cursive,
And there's butter in your chest.


You will soften me;
I will harden you.

I'm tired.
I'm tired of everything lately.
I'm tired of working everyday,
And if I don't work,
I'm tired of reading.
I'm tired of my friends.
I'm tired of the girl who
Doesn't even know I'm tired.
Tired of this blister on my palm,
Tired of the loud cars across the street,
Tired of the fights I always hear.
Of the mosquitoes,
Of the rent being late again,
Of drinking.


I'll sleep when I'm dead, I suppose.

"Why are you so soft?"
she whispered.
"I'm not as soft as you think,
My dear."
But that didn't stop her
From sleeping on my chest.

She sat up suddenly,
"I'm sorry, I'll drool on you."
"You've done worse, darling,
I certainly don't mind."

What's a little drool on your chest
To have a woman engulf you?


That's a fair ******* price.

I'm scared by stupid things,
Like when I see the moon in the sky
During the daytime,
Or by thunder,
Even though I'm statistically
Safe from being struck,
Or by being struck
So blindly and carelessly
By this dumb little heart in my chest
That drives me this way or that,
Never knowing where it's going,
And certainly never getting there.


I'm also scared of open windows
On the third floor of a building,
And of anybody who has sideburns.

Chance gave me a taste
Of a slice of a life
That isn't the one I'm used to.

So I'm going to
Hold life's bakery at gunpoint

And take the entire ******* cake.

On the porch
Smoking,
I realize that I'm
On the good side
Of the bell curve today.

Not just today,
But for the past
Few weeks.


Thanks, Nike.

Our fights are fun,
Because I get to slap you
As mediumly as I can,
And you try to hurt me.

Your fists turn me yellow
Far much longer than
My palms turn you red.


I'm pretty upset
That fighting you
Is more fun
Than ******* you
(And you're a
Pretty good ****.)