I'm in love with a boy I've kissed once.
Who I know I'm bound to never kiss again.

I'm in love with a boy I've kissed twice.
First one so sweet.
Second one so bitter.

I'm in love with a boy I've kissed three times.
Each for the words 'I love you.'

I'm in love with a boy I've kissed four times.
Each one better than the last.  

I'm in love with a boy I've never kissed.

I am ugly.
Maybe not in the way the human race perceives the word, but in the way I perceive the word.
I am ugly,
whether that is in the way I smile, look, dress or the way I see the world.
Maybe,
life isn’t about seeing the yourself as beautiful; maybe it’s about seeing yourself
as ugly,
as dull,
as plain,
as unappealing as it is and still, above all of that,
loving everything ugly, dull, plain and unappealing.
I don’t mind being ugly,
because ugly is what I want to be.
You hear someone say the word ugly and you think negatively. Ugly, in my mind, is even better than beautiful.
Everything has beauty, but only real things have flaws.
Being ugly is not about being unappealing to the eye,
but being appealing to the heart.
I embrace the fact that I am and always will be ugly.
I like it that way.
I am full of flaws.
I have crawled my way out of hell and got a little banged up along the way,
whether that is what someone means by the word ugly I am okay with that.
I am banged up.
I am flawed.
I am imperfect, defective, faulty, distorted, inaccurate, incorrect, erroneous, imprecise, fallacious and most of all ugly.
The most shocking part of all of this is that,
you are too.

This isn't a story
about how I overcame a past demon
or how I beat the bully with the power of friendship,
because you and I both know
that didn't happen.  
I don't want this to be another sad teenaged story
about how my boyfriend broke up with me
or how my best friend kissed my crush.
This is a story about how
I was born an unlucky kid
who I was blessed with
tears instead of smiles,
who has more love for other
than for herself,
who is more willing to die
than to live.
I'm just an unlucky kid
who debates whether to live life
or to end it.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

The hands on a clock
are only in sync
twenty-four times a day.
The hands spend one thousand, four hundred, sixteen
minutes a day
racing around the clock,
trying to be together.
The arms on a clock,
like the arms of a son,
do not always mask one another.
Arms on a clock never leave.
Nature’s clock can tell time and kiss fathers’ foreheads
just long enough to leave a spot.
Around the sun-kissed spot is a receding hairline
and wicked-sharp eyebrows a mile away,
just above the dark eyes and weak smile.

Over time, history repeats.

Who knew that just a strong bond could create such similarity?
Soon, the same dark eyes will be found
just to the right,
below a receding hairline;
a replica of December, 1995.
The problem with dates
is that they are in the past
and the strings of time
that hold such father-son relationships together
fray until the ropes of hope
can no longer be held
on both ends.

clear thumbtacks hold the
few blades of grass
collected from the meadows
of the Magnificent Days.
no baby blanket can wrap up
these times;
no perfume from the 80's
mask such greatness.
driving home at 8:56
in february feels like four-thirteen a.m.
while it's raining
(how strange)
we don't feel like talking,
we don't feel like junk food
but scratchy blankets to tuck
in the snow-less mountains
this time of year.
something has to cover them,
because our society doesn't approve
of ******
or happiness, really
for our smoke detectors
are dead and the mirrors are stained
the rugs are frayed
and our poetry *****.
our candles smell like grandmothers
but that future for us isn't so
far away.
we focus on the water that will burst
past the controlled walls
in a few months;
that's so close (too close) to tell
because we are told
we won't end up being what we thought
we'd wanted at sixteen.
our christmas lights are getting dull
and we don't strive to make people jealous
anymore.
we just sulk on the loss
of the Magnificent Days,
bright and kind.

They always say, "the past repeats,"
but ours can never again.
We were sworn together with knots,
and bled together with needles and thorns.
our window is closing
on the 70 mph highway
because too many bees flew into the car.
Your batteries are dead and my
charger is torn apart.
Your nicotine breath has staled,
and the fire's out of wood.
We can try to write a new script,
but sequels are never as good.

what a world it is
in which we reside.
we've come to the point
where we've lost all our
wonder.
as a species,
we act as though
there is nothing left to discover!
all we are
are satisfaction-seekers
and to have anything
unanswered
would
be
absurd!
this world we live in
is clogged up with "feelings"
and drowning in the pixels of
burning photographs doesn't seem
too steamy.
the concepts
which are thrived upon
are nothing more than perspective;
is that paper crumpled,
or is it a cultured crane?