the moon keeps me awake at night

she whispers earthly secrets to me

and the stars they laugh along

twinkling to the songs of the wind;

sweet lullabies suited for candy floss clouds.

the darkness is my true peace.

the washer rocks
off kilter
while my brother
strums the bass,
i listen from
the back porch
with the sun
going down
and i feel bad
for anyone
that doesn’t get
to feel like
this.

i always speak far too soon.

stumbling home smelling
like yesterday’s sweat and
this morning’s jd honey.

they gave me
the gift of insanity
but forgot the bow
and wrapping paper

life is an attic and i’m
the tattered old books
in a box marked
‘fragile’
hope is the thing that
keeps me from wondering
when i’ll be thrown out.
despair is the thing
reminding me that
one day i will be.

i went outside to find
poetry in bloom:
floral letters falling from trees,
creating their own narrative.
whispy words pollunated
my inspiration while
phrases buzzed past me
swarms of thoughts as
i watched the world
off writing grow
and come alive.

they say
hindsight is 20/20
but my vision
always has been perfect
i thought i saw things with clarity
but eyesight deteriorates with age
and i’m not sure i see things so
clearly anymore

fiery hot flames
ascending up my body undesirably
until they reach my face
and burning;
they give me away

i imagine my perfect self
hidden around every corner
i chase her
through the dark
crevices of my mind
we play hide and seek
and my dreams are her favorite spot
when i awaken she leaves me
only but a memory
of who i could be
if i stopped chasing her
and became her

i pick at the sparkly top coat
and wonder why my subconscious
wants to ruin things that are beautiful.

the prince wanted so badly
to find the girl whose feet
would fit perfectly in glass
shoes made for someone
that did not exist.

i started enjoying movies when
i realized not everything has a point.

i’ve put my heart
on the bookshelf
for these days,
it seems to be of
little use in my chest.

she’s as fake as snow in the state of california

i wish your love
was as easy to win
as blackjack
but you can’t cheat
at this game,
you can only gamble.

i know that i hate
country music
a little less than
i hate you
and i really *******
hate country music.

i am a broken record
irreparable
so i’ll keep spinning
until someone comes along
who knows they can’t fix me
but they love me anyway.

don’t you let a single tear
drip down your face
i know it’s hard
little girl
to choke back those sobs
and let’em have it
but it gets better
my dear.

it does.

going to sleep at four in the morning
waking up at four in the afternoon
trying to justify my insomnia
like i’m not the problems
that i create for myself
goodnight, sleep tight
don’t let the bed bugs bite
you in the *** you narcissistic
piece of sleepless ****

in my house spoons disappear
like it’s no big deal
she spends more time
in the bathroom then she should
and she goes on mysterious outings
without her phone
so it was no surprise to see texts
from a man called poncho
whom she meets in parking lots
the mystery was solved.

i called into the bathroom,
“i know what you’re doing in there.”
her response was,
“i don’t give a ****!”
so i went and sat in the bathroom
as long as she did
wondering if anyone would notice if i too
disappeared like the spoons…

there’s a fire in your eyes,
and i’d like to be the one to put it out.

i have given up
on romance.
**** the setting sun,
and the beach on a beautiful day.
i hate good morning texts
and your stupid ******* face.
i have given up
**** romance.
*******.

in between puffs of smoke
we locked eyes.
small rings escaping your mouth,
caressed my face;
light headed and mesmerized,
i found myself wanting a taste
directly from your lips.
the crown royal was not the only thing
that had me flushed
hearing you croak a raspy out-hale of my name

much like an airplane,
crashing and burning
is inevitable for me
i guess when you fly that high
you forget not to look down

the clock on my living room wall
is dying
each second it ticks slower while
my heart attempts to beat
in unison
i like the idea that this is my own
personal countdown to the end
of time.

the rose petal writings
of a young girl;
sickeningly sweet,
light as air,
only to wither and
die.

highs to lows
this weather ain’t
got nothin’ on me.

you turned my heart
into a bird
and my chest into a cage

i use to have
so much to give
but you took it all
and left nothing in return

i wish that i had atlas hands
so that i could trace fingers
across maps and be transported
to where you were
nothing would be unfamiliar
if your face was what i saw
against the backdrop of the world

when the clock struck midnight
wherever you are
and you thought about the past
and the future
i hope that i was something
that crossed your mind
even if only for a second.

the burden of life
has fallen on my shoulders
and i am weak
from pulling the weight
of everyone but myself.
i’m at a
standstill.
i am weak,
not even strong enough to cry..
but still i fight
for everyone else.

one poem later and i realize
that i’ve become
my parents.

you make me feel
like i’m looking through
rose colored lenses.

i see your faults
with a hint of red.

i hear your lies spoken
with cherry lips, and i
want to charge like a bull.

wear your heart on your sleeve
where it can be seen but not
broken.

the spirit in the staircase is
always a creaky reminder of
what you could have said.

always wanting
never needing
always hoping
never sleeping
always dreaming
never winning
always wondering
never knowing

you are a summer night

the way you keep me up

so hot the sheets stick to me

i have to open the windows,

take off all my clothes

morning comes and i still

feel you on my skin

i have realized i regret
every single thing that i do,
but i can’t seem to learn
how to regret you.

this entire winter
i’ve been a hibernating seed
under a blanket of
protective soil and frost.
spring shows me
emerging from the
dewy grass and
spouting up towards the sun,
but summer is where
i truly flourish.

non, je ne regrette pas une seule chose
car vous voyez à travers moi, mon cher,
et vous feront toujours.

i prefer counting commas
over counting stars
this life is for the rich
and not the romantic.

5:15am sees a
pair of dull eyes,
and hopes it wont lose
another broken child
who can’t be fixed.

in sixth grade,
she hands me
one eyeliner pencil
and a thing of mascara
and says good luck.

in seventh grade,
i ask for a hair straightener.
we buy one the cheapest one
and i teach her how to use it.

at 16 years old,
i ask her to braid my wet hair.
she combs over my ears
and pulls too far to the left.

i’m 19, staring into a mirror
at a painted face that looks
far from my own, hair i did myself.
i smile because it is my work of art.
i cry because she never taught me a thing.

she likes the same things i do,
and i can’t help but wonder
if that’s why you chose her.
do you think of me when she
talks about my favorite band?
well i guess it’s her favorite too.
if you only ever think of me
once a year, i hope it’s on my birthday.
it’s hers too.
it was hers first,
but you were mine first.
this is the one time where
i wish i was last.

codeine,
oxycodone,
vicodin,
morphine -
they could never quite
reach the pain in my heart.

they tell you not to let
someone become your world,
but the earth does not choose
to revolve around the sun

i stopped writing in hopes
that the inspiration would
fill me up like a tub;
warm water words
spilling over my rough edges,
escaping my aching bones.

220
is the fastest a
sport bike can go
and it’s also how many
times my heart beats every
single minute that i talk to you.