If you give a girl a with a big heart your broken pieces,
she will gently pick them up and carry them in her soft hands,
and pay no mind to your sharp edges.
She will try to glue you back together
and she’ll do it in a way that made you forget you were ever broken.
With scratched finger tips and ****** palms,
she’ll lift you up to the sun,
letting it's blinding rays shine through you
to show you that even the worst things have things to love in them
and that even the shattered can again be whole.

If you give a girl with a big heart your body,
she will study you like an archaic God.
She will learn your curves and surfaces like braille,
she will adjust her hearing to the pitch of your laughter
so that no matter how far apart you become,
her ears will perk up like a dog's when you giggle,
and she will smile, knowing that you smile.

If you give a girl with a big heart your time,
she will make each second feel like infinity,
and each sunset like the end of the world.
You'll forget that the universe is as vast and wondrous as it is,
because you will be so captivated by the light that she emits
right where she sits,
by your side.

And if you take from a girl with a big heart,
please,
for the love of God,
do not take it all.

If you take from a girl with a big heart,
please remember that her love is not a renewable resource.
The wind and the sun and the water will forever be there to serve you but
she will run dry, and become another fact of history that will one day be forgotten.

If you take from a girl with a big heart,
please remember how sharp your edges were before her,
how lifeless your body was before she touched it,
and how meaningless time was before she made it into something magical.

"I wish you well."
                                                          ­                    



                                         ­                                     (but not too well without me)

You find yourself so bored out of your mind,
that it becomes amusing to drive others out of theirs

Good girls will leave their heart at your doorstep
and days later, you'll have the pieces scattered around your bedroom

Your old drug of choice just doesn't seem to cut it any more,
but manipulation has never felt more addicting.

Make them say your name, make them tell you they love you
Keep that memory alive when you stop returning their calls
and when your words have cut deep enough, don't flinch when you see your mother cry for the first time
and don't think twice when you know that you're the reason why

Where did your feelings go?
You see how red your anger can be,
but do you remember what shade remorse is?
You prey on the people that love you most and run them dry
You feed off of their hope that maybe you'll change.
But you don't entertain the thought of love anymore
and you'll never see that people are not just another notch in your belt.

Knowing is always better than not knowing.
                                                        ­                                               Every
                                                           ­                                                      single
                                                          ­                                                                 time.

And love is really important,
even if just for one night.
It can chase away your biggest fears,
it can get your through your toughest fight.

Don't let society make you feel cheap
for only needing love in small, temporary amounts.
Your value as a person
isn't derived from your *** partner count.

Don't let them make you feel ***** or small,
because some of us need this to survive.
The night of love we get from strangers,
we use just to stay alive.

Because relationships can be messy,
and hearts are so easily broken.
But through nights of whisky and hotel rooms,
we find words of peace that were never spoken.

And some of us don't have hearts,
as they were stolen long ago.
From men called "Dad"
and men in suits,
and men who we've never known.

And maybe the word "****" makes the people feel okay.
This type of labeling has been going on since the Biblical days.
Maybe it makes them feel better about their own sinful ways.
Maybe when the Earth crumbles, they'll have a price to pay.

Because they don't know what it's like to be empty for so long,
That the thought of being full terrifies you.
They don't know that you'd rather be wrong,
than risk the pain that being right can put you through.

But I do, my dear.
For I am one of you.
I've felt closer to heaven in the arms of strangers
than I ever have kneeling on a pew.

I know what you dream of, darling.
I know that you dream of lasting and healing love.
I know that you feel prisoner by your demons,
I know you hope for a sign from above.

Don't let the world bother you much.
I understand you; I know you're doing your best.
For now, it's okay to find comfort in a stranger's touch,
to let love fall from your mouth.
To let pain flow from of your chest.

loving you wasn't an innocent kind of love,
it was guilty and achy in a way that felt so good i couldn't even talk about it.
and when we finally decided it was time,
i lost my best friend.
i felt you forget me every evening before we became strangers
and i still wake up in tears in the middle of the night because in a dream, i remembered what it felt like when you held me

eventually, you become numb to the pain that is no longer constant
the feeling of nostalgia becomes muted by the louder sounds of life:
like the ringing alarm clock reminding you that you’ve still got a job to show up to,
like the radio announcer's voice telling you that we're expecting clear skies.
there are moments throughout the day when you forget to think about them, forget to stare at old pictures, forget to cry in bathroom at work
there are milestones that will take place and they won't show up;
like your graduation, or your brother's wedding
and you almost don't notice their absence.
almost.

you think you won't be able to go on without them,
but you do.
you find there are new songs stuck in your head, even if you never forget the lyrics to your old favourite one.
you learn to let go in small parts -
you hear his name and your body doesn't flinch,
you walk past the liquor aisle without thinking to pick up his favourite brand of whiskey.

and one day, without even realizing,
you notice how straight you stand without the weight of their world pushing down on your shoulders.

grey eyes and gold buzzcut
psychopathic smile, tongue like candy
calloused palms, arms like a bomb shelter
wrapped in a bow of good intentions and charm
christmas came early that year,
you were all mine.

It can feel like you're being torn apart
Limb from limb
Like the skin that has been holding you together for so long
Is finally wearing thin
Do you remember the first time you were drunk?
Like the world wouldn't stop spinning, no matter how much you wanted it to
And you could swear everyone had their eyes on you as you stumbled down the stairs
It can feel like the moment before a drop on a rollercoaster
Not knowing when you're about to fall,
only knowing that it's a long way down
Because you can be alive for 18 years, and life can still feel really ******* new
And anyone who acts like growing up feels like freedom
and flying
is only telling half the truth
Growing up feels like responsibility,
and losing your best friend
and being so scared of never being somebody that it keeps you stuck in bed all day with a "flu"
And getting older does feel like breaking out of your skin,
being drunk
and riding a rollercoaster -
**but all in the worst ways.

because i believed you
because i never realized how brown your eyes really were until i had the courage to stare
because you told me you were happier this way
because i don't feel suicidal when i'm with you
because you wanted me to meet your mother
because you never ask me what's wrong
because you don't care about anything
because i wanted to know what would happen
because i was too scared to ask
because ******* for leaving the first time
because i love you for coming back
because you only ever touch me when you're drunk
because his lips didn't feel like yours
because he made me laugh but not the way you could
because of 3 am nights with you are all i want to remember
because 3 am nights without you sit in the middle of my chest like a boulder
because my father warned me
because i can't do it anymore
because i can't do it anymore

Once angelic, now sounds like nails screeching against a chalkboard.

Grass, beauty, Easter and art;
the kind of grey skies that don't hurt your heart,
the kind of rain that signals a new start -
Spring is allowing your soul and your darkness to part.

Remembering childhood memories you didn't know you forgot,
Pastel coloured sweets that will make your teeth rot,
Lovers going at it like bunnies without fear of getting caught,
Spring is bringing clarity and serenity to your thoughts.

Windows that crack open just enough to leak fresh air,
with lilac blossom candles leaving a light scent that's barely there
and there's something about the way you started wearing your hair...
Spring is finally replenishing what winter left bare.

Kissing him sounded like wailing sirens,
a traumatic experience already in motion

Your Dad was never around to teach you things
like riding a bike, or how to ask for the things you want
so you own a dirt bike now and steal for the thrill of it.
I still think you turned out just fine.

I  want to romanticize the way it felt to feel your presence but always being at such a distance from you,
but its hard to make something so painful sound poetic.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it all, just a little bit.

You'll call some other girl "babe"
and I'll change my mind
the same way the leaves go from green to red and
one day I won't think of trauma when I hear your name,
I won't be calm when I sense danger,
and I won't be at peace when I hear sirens wail.

You are not lost.
You are not irreversibly damaged.
You are not irreparably broken.
You are not bound by fear.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your counselor try to dig up reasons from your childhood to justify why you're damaged.
Maybe we are damaged, but maybe blaming the people who ****** us over will only lead to a life of bitterness and revenge seeking.
Yes, we are hurt!
Yes, we are young and yes, we are lonely but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your church make you feel broken.
Maybe we are a little cracked in places, but those pieces are still glued together by the blood that beats in our hearts.
We are whole!
We are a living art with flaws and chips in our armor and scars that line our arms  but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your parents tell you that you've lost your way.
No, we haven't lost our way!
We are still here!
We are drunk on hope but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to be live!

Quit letting your society make you feel like you can't do the things you want to because of the fear that it has places on you.
Maybe we are a little scared, but maybe that terror is only there to remind us that there are things more important than fear.
Be scared!
Be horrified on the days when you feel your disorder is stronger than you,
and gawk at how your hands shake when you kiss your lover even though you'd break your mother's heart if she knew you were gay;
because as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to be live!

Keep getting drunk!
Keep kissing the wrong person!
Keep cursing under your breath when you're forced to sit through a 2 hour church service!
Keep rolling your eyes at that teacher that you know is secretly a racist!
Keep making the same mistakes over and over and over again,
but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

So what if you really, really hate pets?
So what if you just can't seem to take the public school education system seriously?
So what if you can't seem to wrap your mind around a God who is supposed to love us, but is cruel enough to put us through all of the world's awful antics?
So what you secretly cannot stand spending time with your grandparents?
So what that Christmas is the worst time of the year for you?
So what if you have trouble getting out of bed or looking people in the eye?
So what if your hands shake when there isn't a cigarette between your fingers?
So what if you just can't quit watching gay **** even though you swear you're straight?

What does any of that mean to you, anyway?
What does how you choose to live your life mean?
What do the little quirks and the bad habits and the curses that have been cast upon you mean?

It means that you are living.
It means that there are billions of coffins buried six feet under piles of dirt and bugs, with crumbling tombstones that do not have your name engraved on them.
It means there are billions of breathing humans that are buried under society's rules and expectations and standards, that have their names engraved on office cubicles and restaurant name tags.
It means there are billions of dead people in cemetery's and there are billions of dead men walking, but you are not one of them.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!


You are not bound by fear.
You are not irreparably broken.
You are not irreversibly damaged.
You are not lost** -
you have found yourself here, in this poem.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

"I wonder if guardian angels cry when they see it all play out;
and as they stand with their hands tied,
do they cry out loud?"**

I wonder if they ached,
when I fell in love with you the first time.
Did they shout, "Stop! You've chosen the wrong one!
Go back, this is your warning sign!"

Or if they begged God
to let them step in
when I was 16 and took too much
of my mother's prescription medicine.

Or if they stared down at me in resentment,
when I ignored the voice in the back of my head
that told me to walk on the main roads
instead of taking that back alley instead.

I wonder if they stand around my bed
when I lay empty and unloved,
wanting to reach out and hold me
but being held back by the realms above.

I wonder if they want to apologize
for my life that didn't go as planned.
And to tell me that their intentions were good,
but interfered with by the evil of man.

I wonder if they would apologize,
for not being loud enough when I made the wrong choice.
And I wonder how many times they've broken the rules of Heaven,
just to make sure that I could hear their voice.

Or if they'd tell me that they've always been watching,
but sometimes human desires overpower their will.
Would they tell me that these things my fault?
Do my guardian angels care, still?

Because the world keeps spinning faster,
and it seems everyone is only out for themselves...
but I wonder if our guardian angels live in regret
because of the times they couldn't save us from ourselves.

Everything is changing,
but your haircut still looks the same.

I see lovers
holding hands and giving each other the look that can only be described as
"the look"
because only those who are out of love are bitterly aware of the sickeningly admiring gaze that one partner gives to the other when they speak  
and only those who are in love are oblivious to the fact that they are giving the look

And I see friends,
friends in love with friendship
friends in love with being with each other
in love with the adventure and the memories
and the comfort and familiarity that comes with knowing each other like the back of your hand

I see individuals
completely, and utterly in love with themselves
the kind of arrogance that is almost admirable
in love with their passion,  their ambition
with their goals and their futures
in love with the potential they know they have and in love with the hope that maybe one day,
they'll be an All-Star
or a politician
or a beautiful poet
or a parent

I see all of these people who are in love and I wonder, are these people really as in love as they claim to be?

And if so, when is it my turn to be in love?

You wonder when you will stop bleeding.**
On the night of the accident, there was so much blood loss that they didn't think you'd make it.
You still wonder how you made it.
You haven't bled like that since and the wounds have scarred over but
whenever you drive past where it happened,
whenever you see an icy patch, or a blue Honda,
the scar tears a bit.
You've tried to avoid those things, but you can't forever.
And so you wonder when the scar will fully heal.
You wonder when you will stop bleeding.

You forget that you're good.
You forget that you're kind, and gentle and caring.
People have been so callous with you that you forget that you are not the sum of their mistakes,
and you are not to blame for the damage that was done to you.
You forget.
You forget that you are full of  good intent, that you're thoughtful and creative.
You're so used to being made to feel stupid and selfish that when someone brings out the beauty in you,
all you feel is guilt.
You have a heart of gold.
You would never do to people what they have done to you.
There is a light in you that remains bright even with the layers of charcoal that surround it.
Don't forget.
**Don't forget that you're good.

last Easter I wrote a poem for you
with rhyming words and beautifully constructed stanzas
about the way your hair looks and the way I wanted you and the way things were changing but -
April came back around all too fast this year and I don't write poems like I used to.
this isn't poetry.
this is October nights with glazed eyes,  burning throats and so much trauma, so much trauma, so much ******* trau-
this is November afternoons smoking my lungs black and tears that i drowned in for every day of that month.
this is December mornings when I spent all my money on Christmas decorations because I thought it would be my last.
this is New Years Eve, clutching her back and sobbing into her shoulders because I couldn't believe I made it - how the hell did I make it?  this is me thanking her, and her, and her too for stitching me back together. this is champagne and the grace of God.
this is February when you came back to me  and as much as i wanted to throw dirt back in your face, I held onto it in hopes of planting something new.
this is March when it wouldn't stop snowing.
this isn't poetry.
this is April,
this is me taking the dirt and burying the idea of us six feet under.
this isn't poetry,
this is Spring and this is the last time you will be mentioned with it.

Before it's too late,


                                                         ­  because nothing's worse than
                                                            ­                                                  too
                                                                ­                                                     late.

In dreams, you reach out to me like you used to and you say my name the way you promised.
Waking up is starting to hurt.
I'm trying hard to be the right kind of patient but I don't know if what I'm waiting for is still worth waiting for.
I'll wait,  anyway.
I don't know where I am going with this.
I swore I wouldn't write about you again, and I did.

i still hold my breath when i hear you late at night

you're locked behind closed doors and you think no one can hear you, but i hear you
howling like a wolf in search for something in the night,
roaring with anger like a lion

i'd like to say that I'm not afraid of you anymore but I can't help but feel like a small child in the dark when you curse

maybe this is why I try so hard to please people like you
I'll swing a right hook at a woman before I'll do so much as raise my voice at a man and what the **** does that say about me?

take a shot if you were conditioned to keep men tame
pop a pill if you were raised to stay silent when your daddy yells
light one up if the lines have blurred between love and fear

i haven't been sober in years

i used to think there would never be enough people like you and I,
we were singing together when i told you that you were the only friend i needed.
but now i only think of you in past tense.

what a shame,
what a misadventure it was to know you.
I've never seen a light more blinding than the one that was forced into my vision when i heard about you,
even in all those years that we spent in the sun.

i like to think that you're not as terrible as you've proved yourself to be,
but i don't know how not to confuse compassion with weakness,
or the distinction between forgiveness and forgetting.

so many of our secrets will forever remain in this small town,
memories of us live on every part of your street.
Christmas came back around all too fast this year and
i keep finding the pieces of myself that i gave away buried in the ornaments we hung together.

i don't have enough time to pretend i'm not hurting,
and i don't have enough heart to feel sorry for you.
more than the clouds want the dying grass to know that they will pour all they have to bring them life,
more than the moon wants to bring full light to our darkest nights,
i want you to know
that i am not sorry.

I could probably write a bunch of stanza's
With black letters and white background of metaphors and similies
I could use pretty words and figures of speech
And end with something ironic.
Or use lines that we've all heard before and try to pass it off as my own,
or write something that's all too vague.
But the truth is
All I'd really be writing about
Is the same old concept that's been written about in poetry for years
And the same feeling that's felt all across the world on a Saturday night when we are alone:
A little bored
Maybe even a little lonely
And a little desperate for a miracle.

The smoke rises
and soon the stars in the sky look like coordinates
and you count the way each set of three makes a triangle.
This view makes you feel happy that you're still stuck in the suburbs
but then you begin to feel scared because you're still stuck in the suburbs
(maybe the view is better elsewhere)
I miss my best friend
and I know that if I lean over this balcony any further -  I'll be dead.
Suddenly you're glad you aren't dead.
and suddenly you're scared because you could be.

it comes in flashes
bright, red-hot
you feel it take over and if you feel it fast enough,
you can destroy everything in your path within moments
you spew words like venom and leave scars without thinking twice
and when it's over and done with,
you hate yourself for it.
this is what anger is,
this is how you have made cynics out of every person that's ever loved you.

Something about literature universally connecting people
something about verses that we can identify with
something about using words in the a way that makes people feel less alone
I see people using poems as band-aids
and poets writing poetry like their last saving grace
I don't know.
Some things hurt.
Some things burn
and bruise
and fester inside of you and run in circles around your mind
until it hurts to think about it any more
it hurts to read about it any more
it hurts to write abou-
my head hurts.
It hurts to write about this any more.

I thought I was getting better
Months flew by that only felt like days
and I don't cry when I think of you anymore
I told myself not to waste my tears on people who aren't worth it
But my grandfather died last night
And I still haven't cried
And now I think I understand why those months went by so fast

we are sometimes lucky enough to know people who illuminate our skies like the northern lights

we appreciate them even when we don't show it
and love them even with our fists slammed into the wall.

we do not have to be broken hearted.
we are so conditioned to believe that it is the people who love us that will hurt us most,
which in turn,
distorts our meaning of love into pain.

they say the only way to reverse this idea is to forgive, but
forgiveness is a tricky thing
and if we don't learn when to use it for others and when to use it for ourselves,
we will end up alone.

but people like me aren't afraid of being alone.

and you should know,
that i don't spare the lives of those who hurt me.
and even if you lay breathing tonight,
by morning,
you'll wish you were dead.

I think I lost my ability to write sober and it scares me shitless
Everything I've ever wrote that's worth something has been a product of drugs
Everything that has ever rhymed
and flowed
and ebbed like the sea has been a result of alcohol
I am a cliché
All of my thoughts are the same recycled ones of the media and social influence that are only brought to surface with chemicals in my bloodstream
All of my romanticism and pain and obsessive verses are mediocre when I am not high
I am not as creative as I claim
I am a fraud
I am a fraud.