maybe if you texted me some other time
besides the wee hours of the morning,
when i am nestled in my bed
willing my mind to dream of anything
other than you.
maybe if you texted me some other time
besides the wee hours of the morning,
when you finally worked up the confidence
or maybe just the stupidity
to say what we both know is true.
maybe if you didn't wait
until there was no blood left in your veins
and only alcohol
to send me a message
we could have a conversation about the past and present.
maybe if you didn't tell me
how much you missed me
when i know that you will confess if all to her
i wouldn't be so afraid to tell you that i miss you too.
maybe if you texted me some other time
besides the wee hours of the morning,
you would get a reply.

I hope they find me
Surrounded by poems that
Are yet unfinished.

being a poet is not
sentimental. it’s not
pretty. there’s nothing romantic about diving off a
bridge just to hear the water reverberate the sound of your ex lover’s
name. rain sounds like nothing but
falling blood and you’re always angry that it ruins your
shoes but is never enough to really
**** you. being a poet is a degenerative
brain disease, i heard
once. there’s some things doctors can’t
fix. there’s other things doctors can’t
name. all medicine starts to sound like it’s named after
a god. words never say what you actually
mean. you’re bleeding stanzas at the
mouth and everyone files past
you like you’re a waste of
time. when people tell you you say pretty
words you erupt like the earthquake in los
angeles this morning because the words might sound
pretty but what you’re saying
isn’t. everything weighs so *******
heavy on your shoulders and you hold the names of your ex
lovers names on your
tongue until they melt into
blood. i don’t know where your
hands are, nobody
does. the wolves are the only things that even have a
hint of what your thriving heart is shouting. you’re bound to feel too
much and at the funeral service of a man you’ve never
met you’re going to be crying in the
corner while everyone wonders who you
are and why you even
care. your words save so many lives but they’re bound to miss a
few, especially
yours.

whispering to nobody
I say my last goodbye
will somebody
notice the pain
that rained
down on my soul?
it stole
the hope
and I left a note
I wrote
for anyone who cared
or dared
to read my last words
and I hope they hurt like swords
because everyone's words
hurt me like swords
and left an eternal wound
but soon
you will all try
but I will no longer cry
and maybe
happiness will come



—j.m.