the more you hate
the more you waste
the more you lose control

crisp from the core
cut in half and a bore.

I want some more sand!
I'm tired of cement beneath
the slabs of meat I call feet,
the movement doesn't beat
the heat:
it fuels it.
burning
on my way uphill, the stretch
is between my thighs. Sweat!
this weather is no good for fancy clothes,
I've got pit stains up these hills.
I'd say I'm looking on the bright side, but
it's more of a stare, or perhaps it's the light
that's stalking me, because I can't seem to
escape it!
burning!
this soul is melting through this flesh which
can't let go of winters breath, what once was
afraid to freeze to death wants nothing more
than a cloud or four, to shade their skin from
sinking in.
the rays,
the haze,
the heat begins.

Summer is no enemy,  
Winter is no friend,
all I want is Fall again!
The spring is here,
my nose is rose,
the seeping of color shall spread
ahead,
down and all places around,
it'll push and shove as
my body is covered
in the guilt of not taking
the time to properly supply myself
with sun screen.

summers seduction returns
with burning rays of light.
I find my resonance with night
has been reawakened as I can
roam the streets without the tease of winters chill.

my bike and I have had somewhat of a falling out
yet I feel the urge to grip the bars
and pedal until my breath beats
me for the lack of it, and my legs
turn to jelly from the unfamiliarity.

I walk the empty road of hurried days
the dark holds opportunities that the light burns through.
Nerves have been narcissistic
in that self-loathing battering
that I promised you I wouldn't commit to again.

is it different if you're a witness?

Hiding isn't part of the agenda,
if you could call irrationality an agenda.

here's to touching upon a few points in which I don't show all sides.

I'm nervous to talk to the people who make me happy
and I'm jaded to their presence,
because I'm a modern-day gatsby
with a touch of bukowski (or maybe a slam)
and all I want is for  this romantic inside of me to give up on the struggle
and give in.

I want to let her form allude me because it's not important,
she just wants recognition for the fact that she has an education
and knows how to use it.
I'm just going to let my words smash onto the page, maybe edit
before a show, maybe not.
Probably go drink a beer on the local trail and stare at the back
yards of the wealthy and sharpie in an eye ball on the cement
brick on which I set my empty bottle for company, because
flowers don't get far in foam.

Nostalgia here we are again,
this time there's no search for meaning,
I know you completely and ever since we've met
you've refused to let go (somewhat of a curse, yet I love you).

If I want to let myself be free, then I have to let go of others judgement.
If maybe for a second I didn't think of what others thought about me
and I didn't think about them to occupy the empty space, then I would
truly return to the person I was before my self-esteem plummeted beneath
all that I knew to be right and wrong. Before it hurt to write my feelings
because of the fear that what I wrote wouldn't be good enough, or long enough,
no matter how many compliments came shooting through me.

"I forgot, you're bad at accepting compliments."

I don't want that to be true, I don't want to beat myself up
over the fact that someone else has great beauty simply
because I am blind of my own.

Self-love, here I come,
it'll help me live life without tangles.

my laughing is a sign of panic
due to the indigestible actions;
the piercing made me *****.

slowing down to an interlude;
the interest is waiting patiently
for you to make your way through.

destruction of self is a bar fight:
joining in those actions isn't on
my schedule this evening, nor
shall it be for as long as I can help
myself from myself, in the reflections
of fear that are so often transparent
when I find myself surrounded by
those who only wish to forget.

the forgetting is what forces me to focus.

crowds are a collective of nervousness
and a strangely large number of people
who refuse to be honest because they're
trying to hide the fact that they care about
what every set of eyes has to think, and the
self-centered inner voice
that thinks they actually care
about what they themselves are doing,
or look like.
the sad and beautiful truth is that people
are too worried
about themselves to think of anyone else.

my projections are reflections
of all within my vessel
pushing outward.