I know very little. I cannot say why or how the moon tells the tides to shift. I cannot decipher The Whispers of Springtime mist.  I do not know if death himself dons a black robe or if his kiss is soft. Or given the chance if I would turn myself off. I cannot Define the feeling that floods my guts when your Whirlpool eyes sink into mine. I do not know if we discovered or invented time. But I do know this. When I think of paradise I'm in a car and it's dark and I am with you.

Tonight my room has me pondering
how something still so fresh and foreign can also feel very my own.
Cram a couple of out of tune guitars
and a dozen dusty books into four walls and I will call it home.
And I will wonder of those before me who had also called it home,
and of those destined to
long after I have gone from it.
And we will always share
this deafening bond
of discarded skin cells clinging to the walls, buried clumsily under the thousand secrets we've thrown at them.
How many prayers have been whispered that only they could hear?
How many tears soaked up by the floorboards?
How many pleas for redemption have they ignored?
Painted in the shades of our voices howling our favorite songs,
stained by those erratic epiphanies that blew our brains all over them.

To the Great Big Something,
Please send my sincerest good feelings
To my Wall Brothers and Sisters

When you're up to your neck in the tears you have cried
And you offer your envy to those who have died
And accept that your truths will be taken as lies
You haven't got time to look back.
The children can see but we choose to be blind
And the flower still grows from the sidewalk crack

Now the ones that protect us are turning away
And a powerful people are turning to prey
The reaper has come and we've asked him to stay
We can use him when we attack
The battle will rage and the warriors will pray
That the flower still grows from the sidewalk crack

And they usher our souls through industrial farms
Led by the grasp of invisible arms
But they pay us real good while they're doing us harm
In their favor, the odds always stacked
You can blow all the whistles and sound the alarms
But the flower still grows from the sidewalk crack

So rush now to the booths, make heard your voice
Pencil in your favorite illusion of choice
Both sides saying nothing, commercialized noise
Shades of grey, not white and black
The machine keeps on humming and the cogs they rejoice
And the flower still grows from the sidewalk crack

So the end of an era greets a new one again
And the old and the young must soon become friends
One versed in the past, one staring ahead
It's time to pick up the slack
If we don't come together, then we come to an end
But the flower still grows from the sidewalk crack

It is a strange feeling, wanting to die but not being selfish enough to **** yourself. It is not a good feeling and it is not a bad feeling. Just strange. Like wanting to step out of a moving vehicle but the door is locked, and you're the one who locked it.

It's liberating, in a sense. To sever those stringy limbs that are clutching on to life and all its irrelevant attachments. Unbinded by society. The friendly release of death, all the familiarities of living still in tact. Immortality stolen directly from the suicide note. Shot through the heart, but still very much full of life.

Some pathetic hermaphrodite of irony and despair.

I think it stems from this futile awareness of a futile existence. I could live with a futile existence, but by some divine cosmic punishment am forced to be aware of my place within society. My place being an insignificant cell in a cell. And no body cares about a single cell within it. If one cell dies, it won't even notice it's gone, but simply continue as it was. But I refuse to give it the power to ignore my death. To stay alive is rebellion. To love and to live, in spite of life, is pure anarchy.

tonight
i think of love as
a quiet cloud of
cigarette smoke sneaks in
through my
bedroom window.

when i say i love you
to my friend
it means my voice on
the other end of the phone
when the shadows from your head
are now dancing on your walls,
and i will talk you through
the revelation that fear and awe
are not far off.
it means i will accept
the weight you throw onto my shoulders, gladly,
when it gets too much to bear.

when i say i love you
to my family
it means mountains
and oceans and
existential planes
cannot separate us.
it means state lines
may exist on maps,
but my love will cross boldy,
any border.
it means you are my home.

when i say i love you to her
it means being buried alive
underneath layers of
frantic heartbeats,
bedsheets,
and a love that transcends love
and becomes one single
shared breath
inhaling late night epiphanies
and coughing out
paper hearts.

i love you in very much
the same way the stars shine for the earth, the way the oceans gently kiss the shore

the way smoke sneaks in through a bedroom window

It's 8:15
and I'm almost entirely sure
that this poem
is only an attempt
to put off telling you how
I really feel about you
but I'm not sure that
these shaky hands
can hold you
or that my red eyes
can bear to see yours,
bright blue.

So if I fess up to you
I need to know

If you're the air I breath, why do I feel like I'm dying?
If you're the wind beneath my wings, why am I not flying?
and do you think that we could both say "I love you"

without one of us lying?