I believe that love is beyond us and not ahead of us, and if good sense was something that your mother passed onto you before she up and left you, you'd understand what I mean when I say, we don't look at us the same anymore and as hard as it is to come to terms with, love is beyond us and our grips are made up of acrylic hands, always ready to chip and shatter away, not able to hold onto anything the minute that that anything becomes, 'complicated' like we were becoming complicated. It's just not as complicated as you think. Love is is beyond us, not behind or ahead.

he told me
he was searching
for brilliance as he
hunted through the black muck
of my eyes as though I had
convinced him
of such an existence.

Streamers are stars
that can't seem to find their
proper place in the sky and so
they just keep on falling
again and again and again,
and I just keep on
shooting them up
into the blues every time they
hit the mid floors of my night.

from where I'm sitting,
I'm thinkin'
ever as freely
as I'm livin'.

there is no point in living
if you only do what you know

though we have changed
separate of each other,
we are the same.

and because we
are the same,
that very much means
nothing has changed.

everyone's talking about
believing in things and the
disbelief of things and
I'm just wondering if Lucifer
has time to play music in his home,
or if he even wants to remember how
to play and all of the things that
goad out of it.

I'm
hanging on
to tomorrow.

the heart is a mirror that reflects nothing but organs

I feel as though we are
always on the verge of
something.
Brilliant or assholish.

I feel as though the
only things that keep us
contained are
sanity and insanity,
mere reflections of
each of themselves.

And I feel as though
the safeguard of
insanity-
sanity would be
unknown

youth is on your side
until you are dead;
only then has it
escaped you.

I hate their eyes
with as much passion
as a lover who loves the
'windows to their soul.'

I can’t hear
anything
because sound
doesn’t live
in my ears,
it lives out of
everyone
and
everything
else
and it
slinks
into me.

I'm just sniffing your upper-lip
to feel what lies have begun to
perfume up your nose.
You'd think I'd be delirious-
what with all of those fumes
constantly shading me.

this is my
love letter
to me:

i am my
reason
for being.

i must remind myself:

you don't disappear
simply because you
close your eyes
and see nothing but
black.

you disappear when
you hold your breath
and everything shifts
into black.

death is in
the illusion of choice
and i am severed
within its guilt:

i must remind myself.
i won't disappear simply
because i close my eyes
and see nothing but black.

I wish I had someone to hold my hand and tell me exactly how the world works so that I wouldn't have to go on making so many false movements.

I need to stop. Writing everything down on a piece of paper hoping that it'll wake. Everything out of me because all I end up losing is. Nothing. And I am so tired of finding my words thick like fondue glued to eyes.

am I not nice enough

and we're giggling at the jokes we've
hit on the head and cracked as we watch
Captain Von Trapp sing songs about how
in all of the mischief he had caused as a child,
he must have done something good and as
Maria gives him a longing look,
Beck nudges the bulge of my arm, chuckles
and says to me, "all she's thinkin' is, you can
Cap'n my Von Trapp anytime Mr. Plummer."
hurling us back into a fit of whistling giggles
as raised as my penciled eyebrows and the new
heights his lungs has taken and through laughter
my eyes tear-up because in the mist of all the laughter
our mouths  fog against mirrors, I'm searching to find
what really is wrong with Maria-for her to settle for
such a stiff Trapp, such a character as Cap'n Von Trapp.

He breathes
so loud that I can
hear him even
when I'm outside
of him.

Apart from
him, he swallows
all of it. The air.

He doesn't
suffocate me. He
inhales so deeply
that he forgets to
leave me a shred.

She thinks me a
springboard. A
project piece to
project to and then
to leave. I've known
more people that
believe in me
then I've known
me's that believe
in me.

She's the kind of perky that asks
if she can have his autograph
instead of his signature,
and he calls her now.
Instead of me.

you're not as bright
as you typically are.
today you seem so dim.

why is everyone better at everything

if I am to let it be what you will be-then you must be what it surely will become.

What does happy look like?

I'm doing
better
than I
did.

I did do
better
then I
am.

it's six
and i'm still
swiggin'-
where've
I gone
wrong

we only ever call God's name in vain.
everyone's just killing themselves
around here, and I'm just cursing
his name and the choir's just singing hymns
of his blessing in intermission and I'm
just waiting for them to take a break
so that I can put on a show, we only ever
call His name when we've returned back
to the show. everyone's just killing themselves
around here and I'm just waiting *waiting.

"sometimes
i just want
some time
to myself.

is that so hard.
is that so hard."

"is that so?'
he says.

and he laces his
fingers into
mine.

My mood and this rain.

I cannot stand the silence of my mind and so I lay down and I let its swells **** me.

I feel dead people. Their presence steams as would a boiling kettle without a lid. I just can not see them with my foggy eyes. I feel them sweating me.

tomorrowwon'tcomefastenough

I have never argued to be the happiest person in the world nor sad nor intellectually gifted past the point of pretentiousness-but I have argued to be the least truest artifact that ever rested my whole entire weight soley on the ***** of my heels, cresting my chin rounded to the pins and points of the skies that buzz life into the rowdy blacks of my eyes, ready, ready, ready. I have-time and time again reminded my own-self of the fickleness that rapes me of sincerity and so I've told him-her-you-they-we-and-even me -that alone is self-destructive and togetherness, well, well, togetherness is over-reliant.

in the cracks of my mind
rests, bunnies fibered by
dust and flecks of gold.

I heave heavy breaths and I **die.

Always. There is always something to get mad at       -      to          get          mad     -      at -             to get            -     *mad.

I've begun to spot patterns
more clearly,
the brick homes that
set around this suburbia
have begun to resemble
the lovely spots of a
giraffe perhaps
because I have
become so used to ogling
their grace, I couldn't be sure,
but I've begun to spot patterns on me,
bold, odd, rectangular blocks
honey-ed to my thin skin:
People. They are all around me.
Yet all I see are those blocks
thatching to me,
I think they're in search of a
shorter neck.

I don't want to know you anymore.

Does it make you happy          - silly boys calling you       pretty?

when i was young
i froze the world between my fingers
and as it fell, I married it's teardrops
between the balms of my feet.

He called me.
I listened to him
as he leaves
me a message
on the house phone.

"Hey, I know
that we aren't really
talking anymore but.
I miss you.
Call-"

I picked up the pone.
Just to listen to him
say, "Hello.
Hello.
Marie?"

Before he sighed
and hung up. I just
needed to hear my
name rattle through
the case of his mouth
and hit me.

I think I miss him.
But I can't be sure.
I think I just
miss the way
rings me.