A story learned from ages young
So slyly disguised a future hung

The tale of an egg held up so tall
One day fell down off of his wall

Broken were the pieces that once made a whole
And no efforts to repair could fix his soul

But was the story really about an egg?
Or was it a warning of what came ahead

For the sing song voiced girl
With a gleam in her eye and hair in a curl

Who too crashed down from up so high
Pieces too shattered to put back in tie.

Oblivion
is a blanket.
A cover that protects
from what our souls
subconsciously determine
they can not handle.
We shield ourselves with it's mask,
and cast away what we do not-
can not-
cope with.
It is self preservation in the purest form.
We slip into the comforting embrace of oblivion
and pretend as if the demons outside of it
do not exist.

I guess open roads remind me of you because every time I merge onto a freeway or interstate the blood starts leaking through the bandages on my exit wounds again. And as the days continue to go by, the only thing I realize is how much I do not know. I don't know how to tell my mother to stop looking for anything other than a damp forrest floor in my eyes. I don't know how to stop screaming at the wind every time it whispers your name and I do not know how to release my grip on the back of the car you are trying to drive away from me. I don't know how to make my heart beat for something other than the flow of air in your lungs. I don't know how to try and look at the ocean and not see your eyes and I most certainly do not know how to think of you as anything other than a shooting star that I was too captivated by to even make a wish. I do not know how to make you think of my head on your chest when you smell earl grey tea in the late hours of the afternoon and I don't know how to fade the burn marks your leaving left. But I do know that my mother cries a lot now, and I'm hoping this road rash scars in a way that won't look like you walking away from me.

Pain is the wind.
It whispers all the things
you can't bear to hear.
You have no control over it.
It is free to pick up
and die down as it chooses.
Try to catch me it whispers
fleeting with a grin because it knows
you are subordinate to it's commands.
Try to escape me it breathes.
You are alone.
Nobody can see me
I am the only one here for you.
You should be greatful for me.
Look what I've done for you.
I gave you a home.
I'm the only thing you know.
And you know it's right.

there once lived a poet
who had a knack for
the rain
and self destructive behavior
and somehow
turning everyone and everything
in to verses made of whispering words
gave her some sanity
or maybe it took what little sanity she had
away
she could never tell

It's heavy tonight and every movement feels like a paper cut.
I thought I might be getting a cold but I just keep coughing up broken piano keys. It’d be no use going to the doctor, he’d probably just ask me something sharp like when the last time i felt loved was, or if i still pulled the heads off daisies like i started doing after you left. Jesus I wish you had left. You’re gone but you’re ******* everywhere. Does it get hard to breathe for you too? I’ve realized that missing you comes in two different forms. One is wild. Frantic. The kind that makes me gasp for air and rock back and forth hugging my knees. My mothers seen it enough now that it no longer concerns her. It’s desperate. It’s hysterical. It’s us. But the other is quiet. The other is breathing so steadily that you can hear the absolute silence in my ribcage. God that kind of quiet aches. It just aches and all you can feel is the absence of everything. Of anything. Of you. Of us. There’s never a clean break is there? You can never lose someone and not have jagged edges cutting into your sides every time you try to look at the moon or an old t-shirt or your favorite mug with a chip in the handle. I don’t know why I keep shouting at the sky like there’s a God up there, or like he’d be listening to me even if there was. I guess all I’ve learned from all of this is that sometimes love is just sitting at a bus stop but waving by every one that stops. And it tastes a lot like drinking cough syrup when you’re not even sick.

And that’s us.

Insanity is scribbled handwriting in a tattered journal
words awkwardly strung together
like pieces of a puzzle that do not fit together
yet still forced together
arranged by someone who finally got tired of
trying to put it together correctly.

Or maybe that’s just life.

My grandmother always used to tell me that July was the best month for a wedding. It was the only month you could count on to not have rain. And she was right, as long as I can remember, not once have I seen rain in July.
It did rain however, that last Wednesday in May you still looked at me like I had stardust in my hair and the amazon river in my eyes. And it also rained, that Thursday in June, when I wrote you the last of many letters I never sent you. And now I'm 2,000 miles from you realizing that even when I was still in the same zipcode, we were galaxies apart. I was stuck on a planet with a very stable climate of a constant downpour, and I don't know where you were, but I do know that it was nowhere near me.

And today marks 30 days I've been dead in the water, calling your name and hoping that wind really never does die. I still don't know much but it has to mean something that it's July and it hasn't stopped raining.

If only words could bring the dead back to life.

If only that mother could tell her baby girl she was so sorry that she only now understood that you didn't have to have a reason to feel hopelessly broken and that she was sorry that she never believed that not knowing how to fix those broken pieces, because you didn't know why they were broken, could ever be listed as a cause of death. And if only that woman weeping, laying naked clutching a picture of a smiling girl preserved in her youth forever, could say something that would give her one more chance to get to see her baby light up the room with the sunbeams that always shone out through the spidering cracks in the black glass shell of a perpetual hurt that covered her so completely that the space around her became listed as the only place on earth where no trace of heat or oxygen ever existed.
If only words could bring the dead back to life.

And if only this poem was actually about my mother and I. If only this poem wasn't really about how my chest cavity feels like it's filled with water because I'm afraid I will never find the words to bring you back to me.

I used to dread the
numbness that would envelop me
Any time the wind told it to.
Every cell of me suddenly
Unable to recognize
A purpose I so desperately needed to
Grab hold of
Reaching with every ounce of energy
Present in my body,
Clasping so tightly that the bones in my hands broke in so many places that the doctor cried
Willing myself to obtain any sort of traction on the sensation of
A will to live that loved to slip
Through my fingers as if I was trying to hold on to the air vibrations that I recognized as your laugh.

And I suppose that it's true that you just always want what you can't have,
Because now I'm crumpled up
Naked and demolished  
Having the wind knocked out of me again and again
As the unimaginable pain of
A black hole, that now occupies the space of the heart I carefully cut out and trusted you with was, continues to try and pump blood through dry and brittle veins, but just doesn't know how. And I'm very aware that it is a biological certainty that a lack of circulation results in death.

And if I still had anything of worth, I'd trade it in a second for the numbness that was taken for granted. The remedy that would right now save all my internal organs from seizing up due to the completely paralyzing hurt that is now the genetic makeup of every blood cell in my body, scratching up the interior walls of my veins because of the disagreement between the razor sharp spikes that have grown on every molecule of blood that I wish I would let myself drain, every one laced with extremely concentrated shots of inescapable doses of loneliness to be diffused into the deepest parts of your being covering each one, and the exhausted and fragile state of the paths being subjected to the anguish of scar tissue never being able to heal.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
I have wept at the edge of the earth.
I have stared death in the face and turned away
when he offered me his fractured hand.
I dance at the top of the mountain,
wishing I could grab up the sunlight washing over my
battlefield face, and pour it in a bottle
to keep hidden away in the back of my closet.
I often stifle my better judgement and lay
control of myself at the feet of a captain who only means me harm; I jump ship into the hurricane waters
Which toss me and tumble me
and churn me around without letting me up for air.
You take your lungs for granted until there’s water inside of them. You take the light for granted until it’s dark
and cold
and you can’t tell which way leads back to the shore.
But I make it back every time.
My eyes adjust to the dark,
and I remember that I know how to swim.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
The morning light streams through the basement window and
kisses my cheek so softly I can hardly feel it. With one hand I trace my fingers over the shattered bits of
outer space floating around in my blue-green veins,
and use the other to cover the bruises
and scrapes on the tops of my knees.
I don’t play the piano but I will spend the whole day trying
if it will make you smile.
And you can keep all your skeletons in my closet;
You’ll still look the same to me darling.
Here, take my last two dollars,
only one of us can get a ticket for this bus ride home
and I want it to be you.
I’m used to sleeping in alleys,
and you’ve never been without a pillow to lay your head on. Every time I will want it to be you.

Past all the white noise and thunder claps echoing
around in my mind, there’s a calm,
for I know that after my heart gives out,
whether it’s tomorrow, or when I’m old and shaky and gray;
whether it’s in a burning overturned car, or in a quiet unfamiliar hospital bed, even though it didn’t feel like it at times,

I know this all really was for something.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself
because after all the shipwrecks, salt stains, empty water bottles littering the carpet,
after all of it,
I still make it back to the shore
every time.

your crystal eyes are
the home I never had,
reflecting back to me
fragments of the sun
that I grab hold of and
inhale into the back parts of my lungs
   like
spring flowers
I shoot into my veins
that are otherwise filled
with ice and faded memories
of a girl who used to laugh
and look at the stars

why are you sad?
Should I blame you?
I want to.
I wish so badly that I could point my finger
and truly believe myself when I
curse you for hurting me this way.
Should I blame God?
Why did you let this happen to me?
What the hell are you doing up there?
Why are you sad?
Should I blame destiny?
It was always supposed to end up like this.
HELP ME!
WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME?
And the reality that I am to blame for this,
reaches out it's icy cold hands and wraps them around my neck,
choking every last bit of air from my lungs.
WHY ARE YOU SAD?*
I can never escape my own mind.
I'm trapped here forever.
Suffocating.
slowly,

s u f f o c a t i n g

I once new a boy
Who had eyes like summer.

They were the seductive blue
Of the condemning ocean.

His laugh was the sound
Of safety and warmth
Security and innocence.

His heart was a waterfall
That gave away understanding
And love.

And this boy,
With the Summer eyes
And waterfall core

Met a girl.

Who he thought,
Had eyes like bliss
And a core filled with optimism.

But she was an illusion.
Her picturesque smile
Was only a trick of the mind.

And her core
Was not filled with optimism,
But with the wings of broken butterflies,
And fragments of lost dreams.

And that fall, when he told her he loved her
She told him she loved him too
When in reality,
She had no form of any
Love to give

But even her,
The soul stolen girl
With eyes like a dying fire
Could not bear
To turn his summer eyes
Into those of winter

I don't know why I keep writing you letters as if you will ever read them or really understand what they mean. I'm just struggling with the fact that it's two months later and I still know the pattern in your eyes so well I could make a blind man feel like he knew them too. It was supposed to get easier, but all that I feel lessening is my faith in destiny because God never would've let me hold your hand if if wasn't forever he's not that cruel. But my hand is empty and yours is probably in somebody else's. And I seem to be the only one who understands how that is an injustice to the world. I'm starting to wonder if this is some joke I haven't been let in on because it makes no sense why the heavens are not in an uproar watching you forget what my smile looks like.  And I never seem to be able to think of how to end these letters but maybe that's because there is no end, at least for me. It's never going to be over and I'm going to have to live my life with skinned elbows and a broken compass just praying that someday you'll come home.

Feel the melodies in the way laughter sounds both in the soft light of morning and the seamless night with only the moon and stars illuminating the path in front of you, and appreciate their differences. Take every opportunity to see the humanity in the people around you because I promise it is a beautiful and inspiring thing. Let the passion through your eyes when you're talking about the things you love with everything you are because that light might just be the beacon somebody else needs to remember how to live again. Accept that you can not accept everything and fight for what is worth fighting for, you'll know what it is when the time comes. Not everybody is going to love you the way you deserve to be loved but be greatful for the ones who do and make sure you are always generous with forgiveness because people are people. Feel hurt as deeply as you need to but make sure you do the same for happiness. Words are powerful so Know what needs to be said, and also know when you should be silent. If it's ever dark and you can't find your way home, dig up that old letter you wrote to yourself when you were 5 and I promise you'll know exactly how to go on. Feel every emotion as deeply as you can because nothing shallow is ever worth your time and you only have so much of that, so spend it being an energy that will never be known as anything other than honest.

This is a letter to the girl you finally settle down with.

Dear You,

You probably don't know me, and you probably never will. You don't know me. But you do know him. I also knew him. He was my first love, and I like to think I was his too. Nobody will ever be good enough for him, not you, not me. He is the best kind of guy. He will make you fall in love with him but you won't even be scared because you know he's going to be there to catch you before you ever hit the ground. Make sure you take every chance you get to look in his eyes,  because it never gets old seeing the entire universe in them. He will give you himself entirely, and will be patient with you even if you're too scared to do the same. I swear to you there won't be a moment you aren't laughing as long as you're near him. And if it ever gets too dark or cold, he is always warmer than any blanket and his smile will always light the way home. And if you see smoke when he kisses you, don't worry, it's just from the fireworks you'll feel in your chest. He will wipe your tears before they fall off your cheeks and he will tell you "everything will be ok" in a way that you have to believe it. Sometimes he gets mad, just let him listen to his music and tell him dumb jokes until he smiles. He loves banana peppers on his sandwiches so make sure you ask for extra. If you're sick he will give you a big t shirt to wear and make you toast and watch and movie with you while you fall asleep on his chest.He wants to take care of you so let him carry your bag and make you things to eat, he'll appreciate it, and he makes the best tea. And if you ever go to a haunted house like we did on our first date, he'll be brave and walk in front with you even though he's terrified but would never say so. He'll hold your hand even if it's sweaty.

And you might already know all of these things, but I know them too, and I will never forget a single one of them. He will always be the best love I've ever had, and losing him is the hardest thing I will ever deal with in my life, but he wasn't ready, and I wasn't enough. I wasn't the one for him I guess. So be glad that you are.

Sincerely,
Love Bug

My insides have evolved into a dry and barren desert.
At one point.
long ago,
they felt like a square of sidewalk during a particularly heavy rain;
being beaten down on by the drops of water
and the feet of people running to get inside.
Wet and palpable.
But now I'm just filled with miles and miles of this harshly arid sand
and a dry, scorching air that often feels like it's suffocating me.
It's a terribly hopeless place to be.
An absence of all feeling except an uncomfortable dissatisfaction with life
and nothing to grab hold of.

Sit with me on the ridge, to watch the sun come up,
and for a single moment,
gaze at the moon
in a fleeting instant before they are once again forced apart.
And even after they are separated,
you can feel the rays of warmth from her that beat down on the back of your neck.
They rays that whisper old love songs and feelings of wholeness.
And for a minute,
they almost sound as beautiful as the words "
I love you" did
when they escaped your lips

We are ultimately alone in this world. We are born alone, and we will die alone. And while this is a sad truth, it is still a truth. But sometimes, by fate or by chance, life throws someone at us who maybe, in some way, just makes us forget our impending alone-ness. And the greatest sin to be committed in this lifetime would not be the way you take The Lord's name in vain the first moment you realize you love her, but it is letting one of these people slip out of your grasp because while we may ultimately be alone, loneliness is a god ****** awful thing to feel.

broken bones and split lips
are the only things in the world that will ever come close to knowing
how my heart does as the light sets from it
like the most haunting sunset you’ve ever seen,
and you hate it, because it breaks your heart,
but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away.



IT’S 11:39 PM
AND IM TIRED OF LIVING
AND YOU’RE THE OnLY THING
STOPPING ME FROM SWALLOWING THIS BOTTLE OF PILLS
AND

I think maybe they make animal skin drums
from the hides of mental patients
because they don’t really need their skin anyway.

and maybe you’re a fan of sad songs,
because that’s exactly what you are.
maybe they make you cry because you can taste
the hauntingly naked notes in the tears that pool in your eyes from
the surface tension (quiz you failed) and eventually sometimes lose their grip
and slide down you face, caught by the corners of your mouth.
maybe they’re the only thing you listen to
because they


maybe I can only write fragments of poems because I only know fragments of these feelings

It's almost funny
How much time I can spend
Trying and trying
To string words together
In a way that resembles the way
I feel
When I'm with you.

And call it poetic,
But I've never been able to
Make the words
Fit together
So that they do justice
To how you make me feel.

And you do just that, my love.
You make me feel.

And I hate you for it.

Along you came.
How the hell was I supposed to push you away?

I'm just a little bit broken.
And a few pieces of me,
Might be missing.
And I'm so sorry
That I only have parts of a soul
Filled with turmoil
To share with you.

Because you deserve so much more than that.

it's 10:32 pm
and im tired
and im sad
and those are the only things
that i know for sure.

And it's almost sad
That the messy
Scribbled handwriting
On the back of a crumpled old napkin
That tries so hard to convey you
Through only the most diverse
Array of adjectives
Will never be able to make a reader
Really see the storm in you eyes
Or taste the apple flavored Chapstick
Covering the lips that you use to
Do things like both kiss me,
And tear me to pieces.

It's indescribably lonely
Being the only person
In an infinite amount of space
That will ever understand the unparalleled purity of the little phenomenons that are you,

But at the same time,
If anyone else were ever able to experience
These things as well,
I'd never breathe again.