I have nutrition in one hand and thoughts in the other
but both hands might as well be empty
they're too small to hold neither mind nor health
they're too small to hold onto anything at all
So I let them fall to my sides and I stand and wait
for someone with gargantuan hands
to hold them but I realize now
my hands are too small for yours anyhow.

It's as if I'm Poseidon
as I lay beside him.

I'm an earth-shaker,
a love maker,
heart taker,
and a staker of the ocean.

Concealed amongst a flock of lambs,
I tamed the horses
and I tamed my man.

But I am the mighty Poseidon
as I lay beside him
and drown him in my sea of deceit.

This fits nicely into the story of my life
A nice chapter leading up to the ******
The ****** that wasn't as long and steady as it should have been
A ****** that took a vertical drop to an unresolved conclusion
This fits nicely into the story of my life
It took up a few pages
But I'll have to wait for the publication of the sequal
to find out what happens next

This rough draft of Part II is a bad sketch
There is grammer errors and mispellingz
My punctuation. Is off as, well as my punctuality
But the sequal will be released in time

As the author of my story,
I'm not sure any words will start with the letter you.

Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.

A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.

Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.

Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.

Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.

Teenagers ******* about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******* about artists they've always hated
and artists ******* about things they've created.

Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.

Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.

Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.

Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.

Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.

Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.

Anger.
Pop up.
Relient.
Shove.
Assertive.
Glare from the sun and a face.
Pat pat slap slap.
Fight through.
Shove.
Climb.
Overcome.
Dump from above.
That's all it is.

It's all my fault that I said nothing
But it's not my fault that you said no

It's all my fault that I always no
but it's not my fault they never say nothing

but at the rate that the world is moving
and despite this state that I'm in
I still managed to stop moving
long enough to be trampled by tortoises
and I somehow managed to be missed by the stampede

Sometimes I wish the turtles would get off of my back
because they crawl so slow
and time begins to ache

Sometimes I wish the stampede would target me
and the last thing I would see is a violent crowd
but I still imagine a mirage behind the mob

I have an invitation for the turtles;
they can sleep on my back.

A sunflower grows
"tall and simple".
And so does a cancer
small and simple.
Holes grow larger
around me.
A field of sunflowers
and headstones.
The power of recovery and discovery;
the kick of a pen
during unconscious behavior.
Chatty beats taking control
of the morgue.
Not letting the rivers in--
only the shivers.
Chatty beats taking the liver,
putting it in a living corpse.
Chatty beats opening the door in the clouds.
That's but a bedtime story that's
read to the youth and
told as the truth.
Hypnotize so I can't criticize,
stick my face in the water
and show me the baby otters I loved
from my childhood bedtime stories.
The glories of floating
on my back into a
brand new habitat
filled with sunflowers
"tall and simple"
and holes growing larger
to keep me warm and breathing
under the water.

Read me like the book
for English class
you never annotated.

Enjoy the story,
don't analyze me.

Holden Caulfield
2. That movie that I saw last weekend that I thought you would like
3. The mix tapes you made me. I still listen to them in my car
4. The way I dance and wondering if you would like it if you saw me.
5. The Kooks and how you hate them.
6. Hospice
7. Late nights sleeping alone and knowing you're awake, but oh so silent.
8. Wondering if you're thinking about me too
9. The poems you wrote me. Your handwriting is classy.
10. The picture of Hilary Duff on my desk reminding me to be good
11. My bed and how you used to be there.
12. My friends and how you used to be one of them
13. Uptown
14. My ticklish spots that no longer get touched
15. My cat... he misses you.
16. Speaking Spanish and how you used to correct it, and sometimes be impressed
17. Wearing bows in my hair. How you used to love them.
18. The clothes I bought at that thrift store yesterday. I wonder if you'd like them.
19. Mehermahermahermaherm
20. Listening to Bright Eyes.
21. Listening to the sound of loneliness.
22. Coffee and how you say "Americano" with a roll of the tongue.
23. The last bit in my tea and how it's "too sweet to swallow."
24. Sitting close on the couch. Your hand stroking mine. Sneaking a kiss on the cheek.
25. Missing busses and missing you.
26. How I used to cheer you up.
27. The stars and sheep and roses.
28. Seth Rogan
29. Meditating and how I can't do it with you constantly clogging up my brain.
30. Laughing
31. I never learned to salsa dance with you and your brutally honest hips.
32. Carrot Creme Brulee
33. Hand dance duets
34. The empty spaces between my fingers
35. Your grey corduroy pants are my favorite.
36. When you called me your coriño.
37. How you would have scoffed at me copying and pasting an "ñ".
38. Attempting to show you music you would like.
39. Failing at showing you music you like.
40. Sending you hearts.
41. Arching my back.
42. Eating ice cream and how I'm better when it's here.
43. How I'm better when you're here.
44. How Cory is better when Topanga is there.
45. Italian Night Clubs
46. You and Me and Everyone We Know
47. Tyronne Street
48. Ice Land
49. Getting lost.
50. Drunken parties and thrashing fists.
51. Second chances
52. Being half of something.
53. Wearing your cardigan
54. Long embraces and never wanting to move.
55. Doing my homework with you sitting next to me. Not letting you read over my shoulder
56. Teaching you about the body.
57. Your smile, and how you give a little chuckle every time I see it.
58. How we used to laugh about nothing.
59. Really bad cookies.
60. Butter face.
61. Jealousy
62. Hating modernized Shakespeare
63. Confessions
64. Embarrassed faces buried in pillows
65. Incredulous about me hating Elvis
66. Miles ******* Davis
67. Singing softly to the radio
68. Playing the piano. Singing for you when you're not around.
69. Wondering if you're reading this right now.
70. Hoping that you've gotten this far down the list.
71. Be the Pitta to my Vata
72. Kate Upton has saggy *****.
73. I just want to make spaghetti with you.
74. How you hate ellipsis
75. Wondering whether or not I spelled that correctly because I know you would judge.
77. Leaving tearful voice-mails
78. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's Rolling Stone cover
79. Looking at art, wishing I was Monet.
80. My sundress on the floor.
81. Not seeing that new movie in theaters (the one that won all those Oscars) because I only want to see it with you.
82. Getting angry when Kacie B. didn't get the rose on the Bachelor and knowing you're angry too because Courtney ***** as a person.
83. I'm an ugly crier.
84. Hitting bread pans
85. Your green plaid jacket
86. Vulgarity
87. Insecurity
88. "Back and forth. Forever."
89. How that one song reminds you of me and I still don't know why.
90. How you deserve the best
91. It makes me sad that I'm at number 91 and you're still nowhere to be found.
92. Going to ballet class with the anticipation of seeing you afterward.
93. You asking me how ballet was, whether you were interested or not.
94. whispers "Let me be your hero."
95. Never seeing your fur vest.
96. Holding hands when we shouldn't have.
97. Velvet leggings
98. The last wonder of the world.
99. I fear that I will forget what your face looks like.
100. Reaching one-hundred with so much more to say.

In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.

Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.

But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****.

You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.

But I'm neither gangster nor *****,
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.

And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.

And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?

This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.

You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.

But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.

Once upon a time there was a girl that couldn’t tell stories.
One night, she wanted to tell someone a story
Because it was dark and she longed to sleep
And she never seemed to be able to sleep
Even though she had heard so much *******
About counting sheep and drinking hot cocoa
She knew none of it worked
And it was no use being hopeful
But little children always asked to have bedtime stories read to them
And she guessed it helped
Because children sleep and they dream and they imagine
…she wished she could imagine

So she tried to tell a story
Because there was no one to tell her one
But because there was no one to tell her a story
There was no one to hear her story
She was lonely
So lonely that she didn’t even want to talk to herself anymore
(Something she did with frequency)
Even she wanted to leave herself alone
She was irritated by her shadow
And this was why she wanted to tell stories
So she could forget about the loneliness
And sleep

But when she tried to think about something; about anything
She found it hard to imagine
Because her dreams weren’t images anymore
Only feelings
So she decided to tell a story to nobody
About how she felt
Rather than what she couldn’t imagine
And couldn’t create

It was about what she hates
And how uncomfortable she is

So… she fixated her eyes at a spot on the wall
That would listen to her intently
She took a breath
And said:

“Once upon a time…
…
…
…
I hate. I’m uncomfortable.”

Lonely like a bad habit

Lonely is a bad habit.

After facing death,
it's weird to realize
how nihilistic you
still really are.

No need for sunglasses
with no tears hide
and no sun too bright
that it burns my eyes

Striving for the fortuity that can never be achieved
and wishing for aristocracy,
they called for open fire upon me
and I see the bullets in every mirror reflecting me.

And with some, I share the care of a creator
who spends all the time they have balancing on a cable
unable to understand how anyone can be frugal as me;
and I ask myself, "Do I need to appreciate all of this?"

They won't let me drown while I'm new and shiny.
They won't let me be a statue in a brochure.
They won't let me sleep in the fog.
They won't let me reclaim my beauty.

I only think about today, not the future.
I only think about the key to the door leading to within my cartilage
that is unable to clench us together.
And so I surrender myself to the promenade.

Everything is a contest.
Everything is a ballad for the Z's.
Everything is a fire bolt.
telling me not to absorb the covers.

I'm not agile anymore
because I just deliver them what they yearn for,
without yearning for anything myself anymore.
But I don't want them to rest absently.

The better bodies walk alone.
The better bodies are lying dead in each other's company.
The better bodies are deteriorating
and heading for the better days.

I used to have faith in something,
but now I live in blasphemy,
repeating "hey," and "yeah" and "sure,"
while never acting honorable.

He only cries for me while he's soaring above me,
shedding tears and calling for bloodshed.
But this isn't war because he's not shedding his own blood,
because he knows how to brand me and string me along.

I signal my phantom friends to join my army,
but they're only a clan of desperate nomads like me.
They're my ghost friends that convulse with me,
giving them strength to drain the vital fluid from my enemies.

I am audacious, I know,
because I am arousing every transmission.
These are the my days extinguished.
Let me show you the couple of claws I have left.

And it's no secret that I have a busted soul.
And it's no secret that I want an acceptable acquaintance.
And it's no secret that I would complete the proper process to be a monarch
if I knew how to drain my body of juice and replace it with a wealthier blood type.  

So move a little closer to me
so I can show you all the days that are deceased.
And I know you think buzzers are bulky and awkward
but time is up and I'm leaving soon.

I wish you could see that we are familiar cats
rather than beardless lumps of charcoal,
and that if we ran this 5, 280 feet it will be a phenomenon.
So drink from this molded mug and forget about it all.

And I'm gripping to growth by the throat, but damaging nothing
because it's made of caramel candy and doesn't know what saltiness is.
Let me take you to the courtyard where the action takes place
and if action takes place, then we'll let the growth be sweet.

I'm seeing framework from my lonely bench made for two,
and I'm throwing timber into a mountain, ready to light a match.
So come to my party and we'll set the place ablaze
and be a beautiful cremation, burning all the better bodies.

I never wanted it all to burn, I just wanted to drive onward with company in the passenger seat,
but this state of the art exhibit will be killer, I promise, even if everyone is dead.
It'll be the first and last stride.
It'll be better than codeine.

But this city is booming and I can't watch the architecture shrivel.
I'm her hostage and though she cares for me through methods of torture,
I can't help but anticipate her friendship in the afterlife
when we're both lonely without another half, because her twin is leaving her soon.

I miss what this country used to be, with it's jewelry on display in Tiffany windows.
I'm not saying I miss the bloodshed, but I miss the sparkle.
I miss the clubs and the parties and the company.
The bustle is gone, and all there is is the hustle of a crowded desolate boulevard.

All that's left behind is the shame
of hanging around someone else.
I wish I was somewhere else…
I wish I was in Stockholm walking uptown on a crowded desolate boulevard.

I wish I didn't live in a cyclone
with arduous people attempting some sort of hawkish raw coolness
asking me about my mood that they don't care about.
I can tell you my mood is not graceful or charming, but I won't.

And if I described my mood in colors it would be a combination of purple, yellow, red, and blue.
A murky brown seeking rehabilitation.
It won't be long until it rehabilitates, just extract all the light from it little by little until it's blind.
Ain't the way it should be?

This is a darling's rebellion.
This is the siren sounding the start of battle.

Hair flecked with silver streams

Grooves in the skin creating ripples of wisdom

Wisdom shown in the glossy eyes



Body of watery experience sitting in the rickety chair,

the chair that squeaks with every rocky wave



If wisdom had a visible aura

it would be seeping out of his eye sockets

creating rivers of tears flowing down the cheekbones



It would be pouring out of his ears,

watering the thirsty hydrangeas that rest by his feet



It would be running out of his nose

into the decades of wisdom gathering around his chin



It would be salivating out of the corners of his mouth,

down his chin

drenching the front of his argyle sweater vest



But people walk by

blinded by nearsightedness

They don't see the water that creates a tsunami

strong and tall



People walk by

content on their dry scratchy gravel,

not wanting to dip their toes

into the murky pond before them



People walk by

closer toward the desert

where they get stuck

waiting for something to quench their thirst.

"I'm not a ******* villain," he said as he walked down those lonely staircases and out the door
I wasn't a lover,
I was a victim

A serial killer with an appetite for hearts
holding captive his next hostage,
ready to chew her heart and spit it out

I dip my toes in the water,
but not to feel the temperature
because I already know that it's hot

I only do it because it feels good to have hot feet
with a torso that's full of snow.

We had a sweetened creme brulee
but carrots got tossed in
and carrots don't rhyme with anything
It was good for a while
interesting and intriguing
But I can't finish this cup
of weird creme brulee
but the taste was worth
the seven bucks I paid

It's not modesty
I swear it's only disbelief
If it was modesty
then honesty would always
be make-believe

It makes me a bit skeptical
that you would get critical
of me being all high and mighty
and standing on a pedestal
(that in reality sinks below the surface)
of me having a little dignity
in one aspect of myself
an aspect that I hate a majority of the time

When I stand on a pedestal
it sinks into the ground
and the only people that can see me
are the ones looking down.

Empty walls and conversations with myself
Analyzing memories of tea stains on my denim shirt.

Scrolling through conversations
of hearts and capital letters,
looking for the first signs of trouble.

But I hear whispers louder than warning sirens.

Silent and forever speechless,
I like the intonation of your breath too much,
any cacophony would **** our spirit.

Breath mints in my glove compartment

Remembering why I bought them

I never needed them

Pointless insecurities

I wish I was still insecure

I haven't eaten in two days

I think it has something to do with
feeling as fragile as your translucent body
(It's as frigid as one of these ten thousand lakes in December
and makes my heart spasm as I walk through you)

Glitter rains down, frosting my home,

but only when the earthquake arrives

Shake my world

Turn it upside down

until I fall up into the sky

Until I splatter on the concave sphere

I see through it,

but the next galaxy is untouchable

So I rest my cheek upon the glass

wishing for a hammer to shatter these oxygen walls

For I have no destination past this constellation

because these glossy glass gates are a barrier

with hands keeping me separated from progression

secluded in an orb

As I lay in the glitter that is a blanket upon my back

my home is flipped and I float to the ground

waiting for the next earthquake to shake

until what is lost is found.

Even if

nightmares, cats, leaders, ***, beauty, hugs, feelings, melodies, technology, communication, life, abandonment, longings, mornings, electronics, kingdoms, followers, humiliation, darlings, hyperventilation, depression, Alonedom, ghosts, trundles, Hell, gravity, tickling, hearts, unicorns, twins, education, lost ones, ink, medications, pavements, thoughts, souls, suicide, walls, hatred, alcohol, oceans, soles, music, misspellings, transportation, buses, guts, Heaven, time, attractions, *****, hands, blindness, organs, dreams, bodies, distances, understanding, currency, energy, love, spaghetti, contentment, happiness, tears, fire, people, oxygen, tongues, children, peace, death, papas, zombies, homicide, blood, kisses, drugs, families, caffeine, mamas, space, parchments, baked goods, economy.

didn't exist,
I would still wish you would

But you don't anymore

so nothing matters.

Touch me softly
in order
-skin
-tissue
-bone
grab them all at once
and I'll get bruised

don't cry/you're almost home
I ******* LOVE FRENCH TOAST
almost. almost. almost. home. don'tdon'tdon't cry
stop. crying.
don'tcryyou'realmosthome
IloveyoulikeIlovefrenchtoastwit­hmaplesyrupinthemorning
but I don't know how to make french toast
you just crack some eggs and mix them with milk, you idiot.
Stop crying. You're almost home. French toast is at home.
No it's not. There's no cinnamon. I need cinnamon. I only like my french toast with cinnamon and vanilla.
that's a lie. You love french toast. Any kind of french toast.
You love it because it's french. I love french kissing.
No that's a lie, I love hard kissing.
No you don't.
I love you
Stop. You don't. You love french toast in the morning with maple syrup.
I love my french toast with cherry peppers
That's disgusting. Cherry peppers don't go on french toast. They taste disgusting.
You like french toast more than insecure cherry peppers
No. yesyesyes. NO. YEEESSSS.
Don't cry you're almost home.

Sometimes things are too familiar
to be changed by the name of a date
or the face of a feeling
or the feeling of being smitten.

Sometimes things are too familiar
and freshly arranged flowers won't change
a past that has already been written

However,
Some things can offer fresh fruit
...but some things should never be bitten.

But I'll bite,
and I'll fight
written scripts with lines for me to speak

because I am oh so very smitten.

I really hate love poems
I promise to never write one
When I see one I don't read it
because I hate the word "love."
and I hate its non-definition
and I hate how it makes people feel
when it fools them
and I hate how I don't know what it is at all
and I hate how it's never fooled me
and it never occured to me
that I possibly want to feel fooled
on a day that isn't the first of April
and I hate that I think that I might want to be fooled
by something as shallow as love
but how can I be fooled by something that doesn't exist?
because I know that "love" doesn't have a definition
and if it isn't defined then how is it real?
it must be a phantom in the air
and it really isn't fair
that you have to be superstitious
to be fooled
it's too bad that I
believe in ghosts.

Whether I'm afraid of liars or real boys,
I'm not sure...
But they seem to walk hand-in-hand these days.

I was in the backseat of a 1988 Prelude
listening to Conor's sonnets and etudes,
moving my tongue in uncomfortable loneliness
because your passenger seat was occupied and
I couldn't decide if you were quiet or shy.
I hadn't met you yet.

Hennepin was good to us at 2AM and
gave us space to sip uncommon grounds
in the typically uncommon Uptown.
I saw bright eyes in your words
and unrecognized yellow birds.

I remember things and I don't know why.
I remember the paper mache lady on Nicollet and
I remember that you sang about how it's neat that we all own guns and
I remember wishing that I was born on Independence Day and
I remember walking past empty bookshelves at the end of the day and
I remember remembering when they were stocked and
I remember loving the way we talked
about Huxley.

and it's a year or so later and I'm your passenger
and the streets are still full of images and hidden messages
and faces with whiskers.
"I saved a cat from a tree once,"
and my cackle secured the shackles on my ankles that
I picked out myself off the mannequin.

and it's always just us because Vic is always
with Lucy, Molly, and Mary Jane and
they're having dreams and hearing secret frequencies
(like the ones you pointed out to me)
and doing drugs and discovering Christianity
and decorating themselves with ashes and ashes with Ashley.

and the people I used to know from St. Paul
are working and growing small and
trippin' and slippin' and sippin' gravy,
but we're still sippin' uncommon grounds
and we're all still living in these twin towns.
But none of them are wearing the matching heavy crowns
that you and I picked out ourselves off the mannequins.
They're the same shade of gold as the birds in your words and
they're the same shade of gold as the shackles on our shins
that mold our golden grins
that we had our faces when you said,
"This is the world where dreams come true, right?"

and we're confirmed by a blinding white light that shows through
the windows of the theater in Bryant-Lake Bowl that compliments us
like you compliment me, like I compliment your skinny tie
(the one that makes me want to die.)
But we can't die because this city doesn't have any double-decker buses
or any other us-es.

and I watch you program lazers into my heart
and I think;
What a beautiful old man
What a beautiful growing boy
What a beautiful perfect cylops
with an eye of my color green to shower me in scenic joy.

and as we dance to the records we bought from Minneapolis antique shops,
I look into the eye of my cyclops from a centimeter above the ground
and realize that this is the dream where the world comes true.

Time to dance beneath the lightning
and let the cold air wash over
let the thunder cleanse my ear drums
and the rain wash away my tears
let the storm water the greenery of Alonedom.

I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.

And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.

And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.

But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.

Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.

I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.

Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.

And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.

I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.

Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.

Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.

Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.

I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.

So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.

I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.

Drift on silver moon
be an alluvion amongst the stars.

Float on silver moon
Hover above.

Fly on by, silver moon
Forget about the emotions below you.

Leave me, silver moon
Be with the stars you deserve.

Move away, silver moon
You don't need to see the stupidity of humanity.

Navigate me, silver moon
Take me to where you're going.

Reach towards me, silver moon
If only for a few moments.

Run away with me, silver moon
I'll sail the galaxies with you.

Shoot on, silver moon
Let me billow behind your coat tail.

Skim the clouds, silver moon
and hide behind them if you must.
I understand.

Soar on, silver moon
For the future needs your light at night.

Sweep me away, silver moon
and lay me down upon a different world.

Cast off, silver moon
You're the captain.

Make headway, silver moon
You'll always be the captain.

Thinking about the meaning behind things and how people hear them differently, like how ppl hear them differently, like how people heere them differently, like how people hear dem differently, like how people hear them diffrinly.

and see them a little more unclearly, like yesterdays crystal-future-seeing-glass orbs

and thinking about teammates and how they work together, but think alone, and there's nothing there in the air or to wear and tear at together anyway

and thinking about teammates and their roles and their lines and their act and their heights and how all of these futures are lonely

thinking about strengths all tacked up on a bulletin board of connect-the-dots exercises

thinking about connect-the-dots stories and who is listening

I regret putting down my sheild,
but I won't regret the happiness
that threw it to the ground.

I'm sure if I saw my eyes on someone else
I would think they are beautiful.
But on myself
I don't notice them at all.

The look of love on one's face is goofy to me,
especially when that face is looking at me,
especially when that face looks a lot like me.

Lose one,
Break one,
It's over due/expired.

Find a replacement
for all the things
that make you
less tired.

Message in a bottle
with a cork plugged into the top

sealing it shut, suction tight

Nothing can penetrate the bond between the cork and the glass

I wrap my hand around it,

my palm pressed against the grooves underneath the cork

which press into my palm,

creating more grooves

However much I heave,

however tight I contract my muscles

until my body quivers as my lungs expand,

until there is nothing left for me to do but release

Release my muscles

Release my lungs

Release my hope

Because your bottle will always stay closed

Nothing will be discovered if its desire is to be a mystery

So I'll set this bottle on the rocks at my feet

I'll leave it there, waiting for a wave to wash up onto the coast

I hope it takes it away with its tide

so it can see the world from inside the glass

All I have left are the grooves on my palm

all I have left are weaker muscles and exhausted lungs

to remember the message I never recieved

That rests somewhere distant

never to be read

protected by a cork.

Love is chapped
It's rough and enflamed
I lick its surface with my tongue
My saliva only just stung
So as I wait for the flames to disitigrate
from my unprotected lips
Your balm fills in the cracks
and sheilds over them
and the rocky terrain becomes calm.

It's all about contexts and
I only want there to be one.

All the "I've been done that's".
It's all miscommunications.
I haven't been done anything in a while.

Take me with you.

My heart left
without me.

The difference between the sprout and the bean is a golden ring*
"It's a racket."
I really was being a snob

I never lied
I wish you weren't ashamed of me

I wish I wasn't ashamed at myself
for not hating you as much as I know I do
and for breaking my streak

I wish you didn't lie to me
Whether you lied about how much you cared
Whether you lied to yourself when you let slip that you missed me
Whether you lied to me when you let slip that you missed me
Whether you lied to me about her to make me feel bad.

I never lied.
I wish you didn't pretend I did.

"I show her that I love her.
I hug her.
I kiss her.
I tell her that I love her."

I've never loved anybody
I've never hated anybody
but now...
I might feel both at the same time
and I don't know how to handle that

"He has done nothing except make you feel like ******* ****. You are done with that *******. Done."

Now I remember.

But I also remember other things.

I hate remembering

Do you remember me?

I don't own any vases

but I like the look of dead flowers better anyway.

They are a better suitor.

The way you do stuff always gets to me
It brings out that spot, if you know what I mean
The way you show your stuff
know your stuff, always makes me
bite my lip and squint my right eye into almost a wink
if you know what I mean.
It makes me think about what you  think
about my stuff and if it brings out your spot
or if you think my stuff isn't worthy
of all the biting and winking that happens on the spot
it makes me think maybe you don't have a spot
So what am I supposed to hit if it's not your spot?
I'll just have to beat up myself instead.
So find your spot and tell me what you think
tell me if I bring it out
tell me if you wink.