The day finally came
when the sky is light at midnight
I wish you would hold me like you used to
because you're the only one that knows how to hold me right
but you found someone else that you want to hold
because it's light at midnight
and my everything's gone
and I'm just some **** that you used to know
that you don't know is still alive
that you don't think about with your tongue in her mouth

Not a doubt in my mind
that I can't go on

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.

It's 12:14 AM
and I'm being unsensible
because why would I be practical
When I only get scolded when I'm somebody else

So I'll live awake
and I'll write
and I'll think about the world
With folk as my soundtrack
Lyrical banjos overlapping with my thoughts
and mixing them together

And I'll have conversations in my head
because lonliness isn't as bad
as the lovers make it sound
And I'll pretend that there's someone next to me
But I don't even want to admit to myself who it is
Let alone to you

And I'll pretend that I can do things I shouldn't
and can't
and I'll do them in my head
alongside that person
and we'll go places that don't exist
because they might as well exist
and I know you can't resist
Because I decide that you can't
and I make the decisions when it's
12:16 AM in Alonedom

And this is the most personal I've ever been
And it's only because
It's 12:17 AM
and I'm being unsensible
and writing
and thinking about the world
In a way that I wouldn't be able to in the sunlight
And I'm admitting that there's somebody next to me
That nobody else can see
But they're not imaginary
They're real for me.

How can you call me a hippie
if I don't know
how to love?

I won't say "
Happy New Year!"
because I am still waiting
for a new day to come.

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

But I hear whispers louder than warning sirens.

Icicle mornings
under kitchen tables

At least I'm not alone.

The bus comes at the same time everyday.

I woke up late. I can never hear monotonous alarming noises.

I missed the bus.

I'll have to take a different one.

It won't get me to the same stop.

I'll have to transfer onto another bus.

And walk a few blocks.

I guess I'll get there in the end.

I just missed my express bus that got me there perfectly.

I still miss that express bus.

I'll never get there perfectly.

All the aces that hold me up
don't mean ****.

I can't fall back on a card
with no royal family.

I have no royal family
and A is the loneliest letter.

If only I could believe
in anything rather than
everything.

Maybe then I wouldn't always
trust the taste of your
cherry pepper
voice.

Sometimes I like to talk to myself
I mimic people that don't exist
I have conversations with them in my head
That lead to scenarios
We go on adventures together

I mimic all sorts of people
I have conversations with them in my head
Soon enough I start talking out loud
and I don't know who is real and who is in my head

Soon enough I start to mimic myself
and I don't know if I'm real or if I'm in my head
I start to think that maybe I'm just an impersonation
that maybe I'm not real
Or maybe I'm just acting all the time.

I am the moon...
     watching over the world
     and making things cold...
          preparing life for the warmth of sunrise.

In the end,
it all comes down to the fact
that I'd rather be a ghost than an angel

It's the karma--
It has me by the neck.
It's alarming--
Screaming in my ears... deafening me.

I always have myself,
I'll never leave
I am my crowd,
now surf me.

Although we endure our breaths in this this shack upon the shore,
The icebergs lurk before us clearer than ever before.
Dancing animatedly in our Siberian tundra,
like a hero taking selfish refuge before the storm.

I think we should try on these tiny snow shoes anyway
and swim through the snow that's buried us beneath our fragile beating sleigh.  
I keep putting my thumb on display,
exposing my heart to these wolves that transpire around us day by day.

I envy their silent and still tails
that rest quietly, sturdy and as deadly as nails.
My thoughts recognize an after party to hide my pain
that I only partake in to seem less insane.

So I coach my brain to copulate with my emotions
rather than with the hurricane motions of the ocean of your brain.
It all seems transparent to me now,
a ghost in my chest pounding to get out somehow.

This clock smokes a cigarette and tucks itself into the nest hidden inside of my jaw made from the sticks in my eyes and the branches in my brain. They act as a memento of all of my cherished and celebrated flaws. You know, the ones that to everyone else seem deep and emotional and artistic and cool, but to me seem just seem clinically insane. These branches are pawns from Fool’s Paradise calling to me—I can see them floating idly above my head like tiny taunting yellow birds from my memories. They try to make me forget whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing these doves from my nest into my heart. They flap their wings in my chest monotonously and obnoxiously; a tireless taunting heartbeat. You’re a modern desolate suicide with your heart filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides, poisoning all of my beautiful birds of Fool’s Paradise.

They’re teaching me to fly now, making me too exhausted to even lose it anymore, and too exhausted to think I can choose it. (“It” being the toxins making me dizzy and Ms. “Miss Me Please”. Pathetic.) This restless clock stays awake and is impassively beating a tragic ballad like a phantom of my pallid heart which silently screams. It’s foolish and hushed and timidly invalid. The rhythm paces past pit stops searching for the sound of silence but never stops to eat or for a pick-me-up when it’s lasted this long already. You’re a modern romantic suicide wringing out my heart with your rigid hands and hanging it out to dry.
Sometimes my heartbreak will abruptly brake and snarl at me like a moon exhausted at daybreak refusing to hold itself up for the world anymore. It’s as if it trips and stumbles across its own canvas in the sky, collapsing into my nest weighing me down into the deepest of these one-hundred thousand lakes of solitude, making me a drowning anchor at best, bringing the whole **** ship and crew down with me. It’s as if your shiny poisonous soul blasts my shaded nest with lasers from a science-fiction fantasy with all robots and no magic, and the necessary darkness needed for dreams begins to fade. Your sparkle is surfing and effortlessly riding the tsunami of my mind, unaware of the sharks with razor teeth made of my pathetic emotions. How are you so charming and rustic, and yet so piously unkind?

And I could tell you that you’re not alone yet, but you would never believe me. And I could tell  you you’re far too ******* yourself and too ******* me and too ******* us and the catastrophic hurricane we’d be lucky to be, but you would never want to believe me. I could tell you that you’ve got your heavy crown all tangled up in your hair filled with twigs and branches but I won’t because I know you won’t dare to care.

But it’s true, you’re not alone yet. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through or who you’ve been through or anything we’ve been through . It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen or who you’ve seen, these sentimental knives still seem to lacerate your brain, I know they have. I’ve acquired my fair share of daggers—please let me guide you through the pain or at least pretend to if you’ll let me. You’re not alone, although I know you wish you were. I’m sorry.

So leave me be when you’re not alone. Let’s both abandon me together so you can be alone. Give me your hands because you’re staggering on this uneven floor. Let me hold your struggling heart still because it’s beat is staggering. Let me be alone with you because you’re staggering… but I’m a chore.

Sometimes I feel like there is a balloon inside of my heart that is deliberately deflating to a point where my skin can’t stretch far enough to protect it anymore. Sometimes I feel like there a minuscule puncture in my heart that is so small that nobody can even see it. I wonder if I’m the growing void, or if the void is growing inside of me.

The delusion of you lurks in the corners of my brain and I’m so ashamed about it. It’s like you sleep in the underbelly of my eyelids that keep leaking because there is no more room for them without you living in there. It’s as if you made a puncture in my eyes so small that nobody can see it but they can see the streams that used to snuggle up in there.

You make me feel like I’m a speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill and spent on a pack of gum.

I used to believe
that if I wore socks to bed
that they would cut off the circulation to feet
while I slept,
and I would have to amputate my feet off
when I woke up.

I still take my socks off before I go to sleep
because childhood fears make sense
in the darkness.

I wrote you something
Well, maybe I wrote it for myself
but it's about you and me on the best day of my life
and about you and me on the worst day of my life
It's far too personal to show anybody but you,
so for now I'll just keep it to myself
because you don't want to see it
but I'll hope that you'll see this
and let me know if you want to read it
because I'm sorry
and I miss you
despite everything

because I'm a *****.

I guess I wish you the best,
I just hope you have to suffer a little to find it,
and I hope the best reminds you of me a little.

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.”

You're a winged beetle and I am a lightening roach during our paranormal hour.
Why am I struggling the weight of a vagabond on my slack-spine back with slack strings that bring silly string dreams to my brain starring an amateur fawn.
Why are you attracting your mate this late in the morning?
I think I'm late to my own mourning ceremony.
How phony of me to accept this bait that that I've dangled so familiarly.
Silly me with my silly string lullabies like sighs of goodbye pranks.
Thanks for making me your mate, or am I prey?
I've been growing a frigid light inside me.
I've watered it and watched it grow into a person.
This frigid light suggested a tundra flight in an instant shock,
juxtaposing the dismal night like an instant dusty fish on our musty hidden floor.
I'm just an instant dusty chore,
a crusty crustacean washed up on the faded shore.
I'm just a maudlin faded bore that's always needing more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more.
I wish I wasn't an instant fish, beautiful and shocking,
unlocking a rainbow that's inducing emotions that I'm chemically reducing slowing to nothing,
producing lightening from my murky roach of a lower firefly belly,
that's been on display a lot lately,
greatly failing to focus your unfocused attention.
I'd like to mention how the lines of your words and the lines of your body and the lines of your face have become blurred to me.
Tomorrow they will be crisp and clear, though.
I know they will be and my head will be sleeping in an endless foggy dream.

I died in your arms.
Let me live an afterlife
in your arms.

Everything was pointing in your direction
and now these arrows are choking me.

A walking corpse, undead amongst a society of necrophiliacs.

I wish I had the reassurance that they were always right behind me.
But I let them go, as they planted their feet into the ground.
I left part of my body attached as the wind pulled me forward,
and now I am sluggish and un-whole.

I let him go tonight and the wind only blows towards tomorrow.

I can recite this speech in a different way
but it won't change what I have to say
I'll just be saying it in a foreign language
(But there's still that slight hope you find my accent attractive)

You Don't
Want to
Know
Anything
About Me.

Congrats,
You Don't
Know
Anything
About Me.

This is a poem about nothing at all
and no one in particular

It's simply about my mistakes
that are an array of paints in front of me
Assorted by Roy G. Biv's rules of regulation
If I try to remove an acrylic faux pas
they won't be in order and nothing will make sense

So I guess all I can do is paint a self-portrait
using all of my colorful blunders
and attempt to make it beautiful

But I know I'm much too modern
and much too childish
for closed-minded critics to appreciate.

My mind is a filter
draining away the venom
that's hidden in your mailbox
buried in history
and the holocene stones that I took
from the pit of my stomach

I bought a blushing dress
and some blossoming shorts
that I'll do a salsa solo in
exposing my skin
and getting freckles
that trail across my face
getting freckles
that you'll never know I get in the summertime.

My cinematic eyes
only win oscars
when they're sad.

You think that now
It wouldn't be the first time it happened
So how do I know that in a couple of weeks or so I won't be worth respecting anymore?
but trust has gotten me into some nasty places
I don't. I just have to trust you.
So how do I know this isn't one of those times?
and you said, "Guys say that **** all the time. I've said that ****."

I'm not good at affection
But I've heard it's a skill worth learning
So maybe I'll do some exercises
because practice makes perfect

Give some hugs
Look at eyes
Give some love
Say some highs

Then I remember;
It takes two to ****.

My bag of bones
is undead,
but only for you.

Pulsing without a brain,
it creates movement of passion.

My bag of bones
is a zombie
that I cannot control.

Don't awaken me to my failures
for they're my most dependable friends.
They never forsake me;
my baneful lovers until the end.

They're the sun that blinds me as it hovers
and abandons me in the twilight.
Why is it that the sun will always go down on me
but you never will anymore?

This is my ode to severence
so severe that I will bleed out
if you extract yourself from my chest.
So sleep there and keep me arduously alive.

I've been to every surgeon of a lover that loves to cut,
and none of them can fix this breach in me.
So I stuff it with rambunctuous patterns and accessories.
I wanted you to be a ravishing accessory for me,
but you're only an accessory to my spirit's assassination.

The coronet of my history still carves a hole in my brain.
With this hole in my chest
and this hole in my brain,
I feel eternally chained to the pain.

It's as if you pierce me just to see if I still can feel.
I can tell you without proof that it's the only thing that's real.

So now my molten emotions have erupted;
evanescing everyone I know away.
I'm lava that not a soul can caress.
It's not a fun game anymore.
I don't want to play anymore.

Tired of feeling like I'm ******* deranged.
They used to cheer my name,
now they whisper it,
as if my maudlin disease is contagious.

I wish I was the hero of my own epic,
but I was drafted into a tragedy
patiently awaiting my somber ending
that seems to never want to visit me.

A place built for two with an eternally vacant cushion.

Battle your venomous creatures as I preach to the preacher creatures.

I look at the sky though my heart's been put to rest below the earth,
along with my conscience--- waiting for it's promised rebirth.

I know about forgiveness and how it's impossible to forget.
I know about mistakes, but somehow it's impossible to regret.

These are the days when my head can't find the clouds
and my batting lashes can't even black out my troubles anymore.

Feeling the nostalgia
within the dry crusty streaks
on my cheeks the morning after;

Reminds me of the stalking depression
that is determined to ****** me.

because my perspective is subjective

and my synapses has the bitter taste of molasses

that leaves goosebumps on your tongue

you don't understand the magnifying glass

that controls my mind

that focuses in on the small specks

that when looked at so closely

become the skyscrapers that i stand upon

a ghost that a gust of breath

blown at the back of my neck

through a tubular straw

can throw me through the ground

so you don't comprehend my perspective

because.

I can feel the balloon inside of me deflating deliberately
     as if there is a minuscule puncture in its underbelly that no one can regard.
I feel like I am the growing void
     and also that the void is growing within me.

Your silent delusion lurks in the corners of my brain and I am so ashamed.
You abide in the underbelly of my eyelids
     that are leaking deliberately as if there's a minuscule puncture where no             one can regard it.

I'm that speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill
     and spent on a pack of gum.

Thanks for the game.

Being a person
is becoming a bit
too complicated
and a bit
too difficult

Hovering;
      Encompassing;

With a chest that has
      endured twenty-four years
             of ambiguity,

I am rooted  
      beneath the landscape
           of my integrity.

Dance with me
my shiny new friend...
until we rust.

I try to inhale your words
**** them through my nostrils
but there is no more breath in my lungs
And I can't swallow your words whole
so I chew them up into tiny pieces,
and although they slide down my throat alright,
I can still taste the bits that are stuck in my teeth
...the pieces that scream that you don't care about me.

Like the world around me is live art.
knows what to say. I love them so much.
I'm a spectator of life.
But not the people. Just him.
Watch it put on a show
Yell it louder so people can feel you.
Who knew a high could ever
"I'm happy just because." They don't
feel so low and cold.
have to be new and popular. Just
Rivers in my throat, frightening
popular because they're old. Yell it
my insides.
louder until my heart seams split
people are talking levels outside
*** *** *** *** ***
me. Why do they talk?
unnecessary marks on the paper because
let only the drummer a-****-
you were counting. I feel like they
a-pum-pum. Let it out.
should know. Ax me in half so a
look at yourself from inside
different part can move. Another ending.
the levels. I'm not the yellow
I can't handle these types of noises.
man. Purple blob in the corner.
Or writing between the lines. There's nothing
Why did they skip that part?
to hold that will let you hold still
That part's all I look forward to
How are people still thinking while I'm gone?
Until the end. No one can ever

I don't understand
why my attempt
at happiness
is making me so sad.

Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.

Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.

So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.

I'll still give them the birds.

What is dark and depressing is bittersweet

as what I write is wrong

and what is wrong is right

As what is thrifty is hip

and what is popular is expensive

As the caffeine in my bloodstream helps me sleep

and what keeps me awake are my screaming dreams

As my clean face is a mask

and this foundation is natural

As dollar bills can be torn

and so can this paper waste

As ants are strong creatures

but I exterminate them with my smallest finger

As your words are so soft

but are breaking me to pieces.

Bittersweetness is
energy
without the
CRASH

Alcohol's the devil
and he's my only friend.