I feel the turn of the earth
the earth that has me
this massive creature beneath me
Breathing
Running
Crying for help
I borrow her love
As she creates mine
I am made of borrowed thoughts
She has lent me her heart
She has shared it with all of humanity
But they take it as if it was all theirs
There is no kindness
She comes unfiltered
Opens her arms
They call her home
Yet they give her nothing in return for her undying love
She is a lost lover
Bruised and abused by unworthy
She has the moon at her side
He pities her
He feels her pain
He sees all the darkness that she possesses
As she hides it behind the suns mask
There is a story
Where eyes open
Can I wake you up?

I worry you will fall
As you teeter up on top of your insecurities
Stamping them with your materialism
"PRADA"
Attempting to hide them below your feet and beneath your masks of paint
Attempting to keep them out of frame, out of the photos, out of view,
But the photographs were over-exposed
And now your nakedness is only covered by your self-doubt
Your lack of self-worth.
Don't try to hide the tears you cry out of unappreciative sadness
No need to validate happiness
With crest whitening strips
Because all they do is stain your already filthy mouth.
Bleach couldn't wash the ignorance from those gums.
Your cavities sloshed with your parents Chardonnay
and chocolate fountains drip upon your white dresses.

I try so hard to remain kind
Remain happy
Remain real
When all I can do is laugh
And hope you understand
That all I am is sad.

There is only sadness
When the best view that I have
Is of your huge fake ****.

Im so sad and dead
But that makes me so very happy
So happy to be sad.

don't be afraid you're already dead

for he was not lucky enough for the train to take the other track
the pills were not vitamin C
the gun did not shoot water
and it was not, instead of him, me.

we are no longer the kids with capes crinkled in knots around our necks
but in their place are the rope burns of our selfish regrets

only attempting to rid myself of the crushing weight of confused sorrow
the dreams in my head have fallen to the floor
he placed his in patterns there

searching for adjectives inside a dictionary
where only nouns are found
lonely, the adjective being
the one word to describe this
is trapped in the moldy basement of a frat house

he taps at the window
sliding through its confinements
back where he was days ago
a silhouette of the clock

plucking at your hairs
chickens clucking that their scared
they keep changing this cyclorama
but it's always ripped and torn

walking into the abyss
singing his cares away
thinking himself sick
will we feel like this for the rest of our lives?

who owns this beating heart,
it seems to have been misplaced

you'd written horror stories on the sides of elementary schools
superfluous thoughts were rays of sunshine
that only cast shadows in your head

don't be afraid you're still alive

All I do is dream of the future and crave the answers
This is now the future I had once fantasized
I have reached the future
I have seen what has become of my 6 year old brother, now 18
I have seen where the world progressed
I see now the places my choices have taken me
I am living out the life that was once only dreamt about
I am part of the future now
We are the futures of our pasts
And my tongue is damp with the bitter after taste of this pleasure
I have the pencil in my hand
That is connecting the dots of my past
Forming the picture of the ever-coming future
As much as I want to rejoice with my youth
Tell me about all that is to come
But I know it will make no difference if I do or don't.
Nothing would go differently.
If I tell my past what is now,
It will no longer be exciting to experience
What was expected is only as surprising as you pretended it to be.
But now, these discoveries of this now present future
I see

THE OTHER HALF OF THE POEM IS A POEM

now eleven years later
the boy whose graham crackers were high demand at snack time
who sat beside me at the table and pulled giggles from everyones lungs
who drew the drawings of dragons and dinosaurs
With angels above
The boy who was the best things before sliced bread was even invented
who
held all the definitions of importance in his tiny first grader hands
when it came to my search for wholeness.
Had I known that
I would have done everything the same
and nothing differently
and everything all the same
and nothing at all differently
And loved him no less.

Raising a child is very relative.
People always want to be a good parent.
I say there is no wrong way to parent.
There sure are morally wrong ways.
But it's more important to think
You can't raise a child well,
But you can be raised well.
You could be the perfect father
And your child could still find ways to get ****** up.
And vice versa.
I know plenty of wonderful people who sprung from hell as a home.
I know plenty of awful people who descended from perfection.
Who a child is, does not depend on the means in which she was raised.
It is solely dependent on how she went about being raised.
You make your own decisions,
You become the person you want to be.
Your parents decide nothing but the experiences you start off with.
I hope to God that I end up with a good hijo
But if I don't I'll do my best to make them better.
But in the end, it's their decision whether they want to be better or not.

i have a brain
and i have a body
and that's really cool
because what i see through my eyes
and feel what i am
is not a brain nor a body
but a world that i created
a world of what i am
and that's what you are too
what the hell is anatomy
it is a lie
if we could only see with feelings
the world would be an inspiration
every life would be a galaxy
every person would be a treasure
so you can have my body
you can tear it to shreds
lock it in this prison
make it bleed, make it run
starve it and poke it
but you will never have me
because i will be years away
in my mind
gone with the universe
and the stars that died years before