I just want to write of your beauty, but I'm not Shakespeare
or Frost
  or Whitman
   or Poe
    or Browning
     or Carroll
      or Dickinson
       or Yeats.

Hell, I'm not even Dr. Seuss.

Their words are etched everywhere and they've written of beauty and of love

But I can guarantee that they would write many more verses
if they could only see
you.

I'm constantly living out of a car door window.
Heading to dinner but never satisfied when I eat.
  Always hungering for the next road:
                             The seasoning of the lights,
     The peppering of the people.
The beast within always growling
  Telling me
      I'm
      hungry
  Brighter bulbs to hide from
  More people to not talk to
  More monuments to never visit
          even when I live
         10 minutes away.

But the beast doesn't feed on the lights,
                                      people,
    streets­,
                        noise,
stars, cars and manicured yards,
         Trees, leaves, and jingling keys,
                  Gravel roads, throaty toads,
                             Big red barns and a river's flow.

                                                          ­         It feeds on the want.
                                                           ­                  The need.
                                                           ­          The desire to bleed.
                               The car radio and willingness for the **** I put myself through.

Obese with the metropolis electricity,
Preparing to consume the next one:
   [St. Louis]
   [Chicago]
   [Manhattan]
   [LA]
   Paris
   Rome
   Tokyo
Staring into the reflection of the dead eyes of the person it once inhabited

The hunger smiles in the window.

Running away is fun
[Disappearing] is easy
(It's part of the history,)
but it's never filling.

Bigger city
                            More people
Brighter lights
                                                          ­                   Over and over
                                                            ­                Fatter and fatter
                                                          ­             Emptier and emptier
                                                         ­        Sugar cane in a child's diet
                                                          Fa­lse calories in the form of "homes"

Trapped in a little car,
The driver belting Hallelujah.

"You're my exception."
And then there is a kiss that pays no attention to my tears.

I have a stupid grin on my face.
My blanket is wrapped tighter than his fingers were around her wrist, begging her not to go.
My eyes swell up and the credits roll.

As I close my laptop, I close again my chest.
See, it was exposed.
So long. To the emotions and feelings and judgement of others.
I thought I could handle it, but my gut was ripped out.
My intestines were untangled on the floor.
It's funny how something labeled as "small" is really so big.
Kind of like love, you know?

It's a word. A noun. 4 letters. Nothing more.
But then you see it in action.
You see the beauty, the ugly, the loathing, the accepting.
Some see people holding hands, others see a man dying on a cross.
Some see the covering of a blanket and others see the covering of His blood.

But what enraptures us is what it is like when we are the scientist.
It's an addiction.
We crave the feeling.
We want to shoot up hand holding. We want smoke acceptance.
We cake our face in the ******* of beauty to fool the beholder all because we want to feel worthy enough to fight for.

Every person has this image plastered in their lids.
We see it, day in, day out.
We go to the deli thinking, "Maybe she was the one. Should I have said something?"
We go to the gym just to see this one guy who only comes in on Thursdays, Saturdays and twice on Tuesdays just because he can.
We try so hard.
We match our schedules up to people we have never even spoken to, because it's scripted.
It's in the movies so it must be real.
There must be magic. Fate. God. Someone.
Those stories don't just come from thin air, right?

I think I watch RomComs to reiterate to myself that that stuff doesn't happen in real life.
No one is going to stop me from getting on a plane.
No one is going to come to my place at 3am and tell me that they love me.
I'm not going to go to Rome, run into a lost friend and find love.
That just doesn't happen in real life. It's scripted. It's TOO perfect.

And yet, I open my laptop, wash my hands, put on my mask, open my chest up and start to work on it again.
The stitches never stay.
The sutures are always ripped.
The gauze is red but I convince myself it isn't blood, but rather love.

I was sitting in a chair at church eating chex mix.
I began thinking of what I liked most in it
just because a little, brown wheat square fell to my lap.
"Have to save that one," I said.
"Those are delicious."
Then I started ranking them.
And then I started wondering what part of chex mix you liked most.
Would we be able to share a bag?
Do you hate the rye chips that I love?
If you did, would you pick them out and try to toss them in my mouth, making a game put of cereal and pretzles?
Or maybe you, like most, hate the little breadsticks.
I wonder if you realize that if you truly didn't want them, I would eat them for you.
Cause I wanna share chex mix and also a bed.
I wanna share thoughts and feelings and grapes and ice cream.
I want to bump into your hand when when we reach for popcorn at the same time.
I want us to eat chex mix for breakfast.

I finally see what the problem is, but of course I knew it all along. We read way too deep into things. We read it all wrong.
See my reading made me like you,
but your reading made you hate me.
I finally see what the problem is,
please tell me that's what you see.
See I thought the word friend meant let's talk about things,
but now I see that that was a mistake.
And you thought the word things meant let's talk about feelings
and you though my resolve was nothing but fake.
See this got out of hand, when you asked someone else,
especially since the day before you preached about being adults.
And see when I tried to clear it up, we were suddenly twelve again,
and I was ignored only for the real struggle to begin.
Words back and forth, but never to each other,
Your words to a sister, my words to a brother.
My name on your lips was kind of like a curse
and your name only crossed mine when my name crossed yours first.


See now I feel terrible for all of the things that I said,
but then again I don't and to you, I am dead.

One day you're taking Communion
     The next a square with LSD.
          God is so mighty
               But you left the high up to me.

The Son made you feel full
     But the drug made you feel fire.
          Isn't it God's job
               To fulfill your desires?

Flower Child, I'm your God now.
     You worship me every day.
          Communion is the tiny square
               And it's to that you pray.

You were my hero once.
I loved you unconditionally.
Never flawed -- just bright.
I didn't understand what was wrong,
That I was being cheated.
My life wasn't what you told me it was.
I was different, but not special.

I knew you.
Every inch, every breath, every glance.
I admired you.
Sat and watched.
I was your number one fan.

Your smile saved me.
So did your kiss.
Trapped by your arms I could never be happier.
Holding your hand -- flying above the clouds.

But this is just another sad poem I am writing while crying because of you.
I wonder how many of those I have...
What type of hero does that?
What type of hero hurts the good people?
I thought you stood for justice -- fairness.
But really the only fairness you practiced was making sure there was enough of your love to fairly go around to everyone.
Cause like I realized Hero,
I'm different, but not special.