There's so much to be happy about
I just saw a picture
of my Savior
and I know
I'll be blissful one day
and I know
one day the suffering will end
There's so much to be happy about
the sun is shining
and the grass is green
and the people I love are here
a man has borne my scars so I don't have to
and the world is new every day
There's so much to be happy about
not that I don't have a right to be sad-
I do,
there's good and bad in everything
but the good in this situation
is far more beautiful
than anything the bad can come up with.

"Don," she began. "Do you find me attractive?"
Gene told me the next day that I got it wrong. But he was not in a taxi, after an evening of total sensory overload, with the most beautiful woman in the world. I believed I did well. I detected the trick question. I wanted Rosie to like me, and I remembered her passionate statement about men treating women as objects. She was testing to see if I saw her as an object or as a person. Obviously the correct answer was the latter.

‘I haven’t really noticed,’ I told the most beautiful woman in the world.

I can't take them on my own, my own
Oh, I'm not the one you know, you know
I have killed a man and all I know
is I am on the run and go.
Don't wanna call you in the nighttime
Don't wanna give you all my pieces
Don't wanna hand you all my trouble
Don't wanna give you all my demons
You'll have to watch me struggle
from several rooms away.

take me to Ireland
let's paint the town green

September is the beginning of something, and August is the end
in April we learn to love, February we pretend
March is the slow muddy month, May is exuberant joy
January revives the world, December worlds destroy
June is the month of freedom, July the month of age
November freezes you locked in time, October turns the page.

The worst part is the silence.
It's crushing, like a blanket of grief,
like its over our mouths and not tight enough to smother,
but it's still hard to breathe, because you get a bit less air every time.
The worst part is the silence,
because there's less happiness in the halls
and you feel ashamed of laughing
and we know our hearts are in overdrive but our voices can't express it.
The worst part is the silence;
We're all dealing with it in such different ways that
we can't talk about it,
and comfort is just a pat on the back
that doesn't do anything to soften the blow or calm our pulse
The worst part is the silence.
I can't do anything, say anything
I am numb, helpless, useless,
I'm scared for my friends-
but for now, we must be in silence,
because it's as though any talking except his
is not quite what we're looking for.

You are not the dark clouds on your horizon
you are not your sunny days or your hot muggy days
when you seem to choke those around you- you are not
your nights when you leave people lonely, you are not pleasant occasional breezes-
you are the sky, and you will always be there.
The rest is just weather.

now don't you tell me you just don't get it
'cause I know you do.

Thunder.
outside my window.
(or is that the sound of you
writing someone else's name
in your poem?)

God only knows what He's doing.
Quite literally. There's no doubt in my mind.
(it seems, even when the stars are aligned
the stars aren't all that's required for life
to fall into place. It's not their design.)

I've got to be able to tell the truth to somebody, sometime... right?

I CANNOT BEAR WITNESS TO THE THINGS I LOVE OR THE THINGS I DESPISE WITHOUT BURNING EVERY SINGLE PAIR OF EYES THAT WATCHES ME.

How do I see the world?
It is not the I that is important- or the you-
but rather, the we,
in that I am inseparable from you;
my love and my burning desire are not 'my'
the mind is an illusion, a pervasion of 'self'
and the sky is a cycle connecting the earth.
We're in a universe of ironies and I
am amused at this, the metaphor of metaphors-
the typology of who we 'are' is forever enlightening.
And in the midst of all this are the slightly insane,
I among them; those who try and put
a name to the unnameable.
Your beauty cannot be described,
we are all doomed to be lonely, and
poetry is a vain attempt to connect a string
and draw an arrow to the unity of things.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.

I never want to sleep in the house again
I never want to look at my phone screen again
I never want to hold the hand of someone I don't love again
I never want to be feel like I'm sick again
I never want to look back again
I just want to run away
and live in the woods

God hates you, and would rather you dead.

you have been measured, and found wanting.

that once you give something, it's yours to rip from them
that the love you have must come at the expense of the people around you
that every conflict must be met with loud noises and anger
that being alone is a dangerous thing
that being alone is the only safe place
that to feel comfortable with someone, you have to assert your dominance
that you can never feel comfortable
that to ask a question means there's something wrong with you
that my opinions mean nothing and I am never right
that if I'm upset, it's not their fault but mine
that no matter what the situation is, my feelings are invalid
that happiness or sadness has more to do with sleep than choice
that 'genetics' give people an excuse to be *******
that if someone's going through a hard time, they're allowed to **** up their children, but apparently the children's hard time doesn't matter
that a child is less of a person because they are a child
that only your own schedule is important and other people are not to be thought of
that nothing is really private
that I never want to be a parent
and you know what's ****** up about all this? that my friends are going home to verbally and emotionally abusive households, that at least four of my closest friends have panic attacks on a regular basis because of their parents, and the whole world can only just laugh and shake their head and say 'ah teenagers am I right?' I'm sick of adults normalizing pain for an entire age group when they are the ones that cause it. I'm sick of my parents being the only negative thing in my life, and in other people's lives. I'm sick of being on lock and key for no reason and being afraid to say anything because they might jump down my throat. I'm sick of seeing my best friend cry and I'm sick of looking at her father. I'm sick of watching my parents kiss each other and then curse at me for walking the dog ten seconds later than they wanted. I'm sick of getting pages of text messages from people who feel so broken and alone that they have no one else to turn to. I'm sick of it.

war
the animal instincts of humanity
men
huge storms
demons
my own weaknesses
the idea no one actually likes me
approaching a group of people
ordering food at a restaurant
Sacred Heart
disappointing God
being misunderstood
dependence
mental and personal instability
yelling
nonreciprocation

I could destroy you, you know
I know how to make someone feel like they own me
or like they're just a face I'm supposed to have known
in the backdrop of one of my dreams- I know how to leave
someone gasping for air, to slowly **** out a vacuum until
they are desperate, until an ounce of me would give them life
I know what I could do to make you scream, but I won't, no
because these arts are too dark and too vile, and people don't deserve that
I can wrap you around my little finger but I won't
because a little finger is no place for an immortal soul- I simply
am, and I let yes mean yes and no mean no,
because my mother taught me how much it hurts when yes means
sure, but I wish you were your sister, and no means if only
you were brave enough to handle it, and so
I will not be like my mother, I will be simple, I will be beautiful
I will make you feel like the queen of the world and the only one for me
because I can, and because that's the nicest thing to do with what I have,
but darling, I never want you to underestimate my power.

it is exactly like I promised
nothing is the same except the world I left
I am now a transplant, confused and bewildered
by the odd looks and the burned bridges
the person I am now would never have
but the person I was did, and I am mature enough
to realize that it doesn't make a difference who did what
but that it was done, it was done,
and it's over- the only place I can go from here is up.

and darling, I will be loving you 'til we're seventy

think of me when you don't want to

it is not about me
it has never been about me
and I am still, still writing,
about nothing else
but my own soul

we were stars up in the sunlit sky
that no one else could see
neither of us thought to ever ask why
it wasn't meant to be
maybe we were way too high
to ever understand
maybe we were victims of all
of all the foolish plans
we began to devise-
but this ain't goodbye-
this is just where love goes
when words ain't warm enough
to keep away the cold
this ain't goodbye-
ir's not where our story ends
but I know you can't be mine.
Not the way you've always been.
As long as we've got time
this ain't goodbye.

someone asked me what my type of guy was
and I pictured, first, nerdy guys, with big glasses and messed up hair who are tall and gangly
then I pictured pixie-cut girls who are small and cute and elfin
then I saw girls in flowy skirts whose shoulders look narrow enough to fold in on themselves
then I saw hippie men with long curly hair and a love that is languid and enveloping in nature
I saw surfers, writers, musicians, not artists, no preppy boys
I saw people in black and white and I saw the change of color in your eyes
I saw people playing guitar and yelling at the top of their lungs
I saw us in a sunny beat-up car with the windows down
I saw people who'd hold my hand and then grab my ***
I saw people whose minds arched to the heavens and then somehow back to me
I saw someone on my level, an equal match, the completion of the circle
a radio signal that had a bit of static before it was united
eyes that focus and hearts that ignite
just emotional enough to deal with me
and not emotional enough to let me stay stagnant
I saw someone who would push me, break me, teach me
and I'd be pushing, breaking, and teaching right back
and we'd always be with other people
and moving constantly, improving ourselves
because we'd have independent lives and wouldn't need constant affirmation
however
we really wouldn't be complete
or completely satisfied
without each other
and our souls
would have a bungee cord
elastic
stretched between us.

This my cross by which I shall be crucified
and slain by it, my eyes fixed upon my Lord
She'll never know why I died
I wield the penitential sword
To cut off all advances
to shield her from my fault
these shady, pained romances
should never have happened at all.
This my cross which I shall bear all my life
till death do us in heaven unite
for God will be my spouse,
my lawful wedded wife.
I learned grace, first and foremost
from loving someone in every breath
and holding myself back for their sake,
I must now seek my death.
This my cross which God has shown me,
This my cross that I shall bear.
This my cross for the noble battle
that I must fight, and not despair.

God has been telling me this whole time
that I would have to choose, one way or the other.
and I have made my choice.
I would sacrifice anything for Him.

I shouldn't have to beg to differ,
the right to differ should be inherent-
I will willingly reconcile my views with yours
in order to expand my consciousness,
and eliminate ego,
but I will not beg to differ.

it's so funny how everyone loves girls
girls love girls
boys love girls
and sooner or later, there's gonna be no girls left
who love boys

people are so bizarre.
adults, specifically,
they're locked in a scheduled repetitive structure
they built themselves,
and they're mutually desperate to stay there,
working together in dissonance to follow these
invented norms and constant lies
about who they really are
and in the midst of blaming it, they forgot:
they ARE society.

"how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you"

sometimes, I screenshot a poem.
sometimes, I'll add it to a collection.
a good one will be added to two or three.
sometimes, I'll add it to all of them,
but I've never, ever liked a poem so much,
I wrote it down on paper-
save two.
"A ritual to read to each other"
and
"the orange"

I feel most alive
when I haven't slept much
because it is then (or now)
that I am least in control
and it feels as though the hard calluses have been worn off
and the softness of my hands has lost its skin
and now the world is gritty-
now it is wild, now it is free, and the morning air is fresh
dawn dew brushing over my hoarse throat
my sore feet gently held by the grass blades
that do not cut- my soul and body is raw and stinging
my memory is impaired and my mind transfers slowly,
the filters have been removed and the neurons fire in all directions
if you ask me a question I shall respond with a nod, a hug, or nothing
for I do not know what I should do to elicit a reaction
I only exist objectively and cannot change to fit the subjective
this is me, take me as you will-
I shall never be more free and alive than I am now,
for I have forgotten how to keep control.

if you're scared, just keep your eyes on me.

I change the lock on the door,
learn how to take a little more.
I can outrun all the devils there
but never the doubt.

the human personality tells us that we are born with beauty
the human creation tells us that we must fight for it
but the human freedom tells us that we are both born with it
and that we must fight for it-
but beauty was always sleeping within us, since the very beginning
only to be woken by the sheer force and power of human will.

"'Thou mayest rule over sin," Lee said. That's it. I do not believe all men are destroyed. I can name you a dozen who were not, and they are the ones the world lives by. It is true of the spirit as it is true of the battles - only the winners are remembered. Surely most men are destroyed, but there are others who like pillars of fire guide frightened men through the darkness. 'Thou mayest, Thou mayest!' What glory! It is true that we are weak and sick and quarrelsome, but if that is all we ever were, we would, millenniums ago, have disappeared from the face of the earth. A few remnants of fossilized jawbone, some broken teeth in strats of limestone, would be the only mark man would have left of his existence in the world. But the choice, Lee, the choice of winning! I had never understood it or accepted it before. 'Thou mayest rule over sin.'"

you have your choices. and this is what makes man great-
our ladder to the stars.

you are not alone in this. No, you are not alone in this.
as brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand
hold your hand.

writers convey the essence of things
which, when it gets down to it,
is as much how it "really" is as the basic facts of the matter
the facts don't tell the whole story- maybe her pulse
increased, but what matters is the smell of magic in the air
the stairway to heaven she saw, standing near that ladder
she was remembering, and the sizzling electricity in her hair
and maybe it wasn't really there, but in the end, does it matter?
does she care?

to the rest of the world, clouds of fog conceal the everyday
drives, the laughter, the kisses even
and maybe that's what makes a writer different-
our worlds are not pierced by rays of light shredding the darkness
our worlds are made of light, made of clarity,
and so, when it comes time to speak the truth
to finally say out loud what they were both thinking
it comes as no surprise, not a shock, no huge change
because we've seen it the whole time.

but I am not yours.

I wish I lived at home,
rather than
whatever-it-is that here-is
because this whatever-it-is
feels strange and smells like
I am not here, and I should not be
anywhere but home, where-it-smells-like
my soul is welcome, and my heart
will be held gently in someone else's' hands.

what is it now
what is going on
maybe today is just a day
and this sickness is just momentary
but maybe tomorrow will be just as cloudy
and I will still feel nauseous
and my parents will still act hostile for no reason
and I still won't be able to motivate myself
and I will still be glued to this ******* cell phone.

let's take shots from test tubes and
go on drives and smoke things
and laugh while our voices croak
grow hoarse together but not old.

I know the way your breath sounds behind me
and I can feel your footsteps in my soul
I instantly know what you will do next-
your hips tell the story that your arms and your legs try to hide
I know where you are going and I can sense your mind
working through the possibilities
but I know next to nothing about you-
how do you sleep at night? do you write, do you draw
what does it look like when you are in love
I can trace every intricacy of your thought processes
but I do not know what makes you cry, or laugh, or think deeply;
I can name your fears but not your joys;
I can see where your eyes go and what your sexuality is,
but I do not know how to make you moan
or how to touch your skin as though
it is the only art medium I will ever have
I can align my steps perfectly with yours and I can know you
beyond imagining, beyond reality, more completely than any before,
but you will always be something beyond my reach.

the heart of a Christian never ceases to amaze me
its breadth and wonder and beauty
extends far beyond this mortal world
and deep within every person it touches
oh, may that my heart resemble the Sacred Heart of Jesus!
may I love radically and fearfully.

Am I really meant for this?
to love without return, without hope
to love desperately and never quite have that which I love
my heart has been yearning my whole life for something-
perfect communion, perfect harmony- a partner in crime
a soulmate, someone to love me wholly
and you're going to tell me I can't have that? My whole life
I've been waiting and planning for it, but I will never have it.
people have always been telling me I have been too much
so I stopped sharing, I can't tell you how I feel in words
without crying, because I have always been a burden, an enormous
intensity of feeling, too much love for people to handle
too much hope, too much emotion, to share without crushing
I must bear the burden on my own, never to share, never to partner
never to communicate, to be equal, to bear with each other.
I must hold all of it within, with only the help of the Lord my God.
Am I really meant for this? Why?
Why would God make this destiny for me?
Why would God make this loving heart for heartbreak?

and then I remembered.

After all, I did ask to love like you, Lord.

oh, honey, one day you'll be there
but until then I have to work to make myself
into the person you're going to fall in love with-
I will be the best me I can be, for you.