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?

I used to believe that nothing hurt more than disappointment.
Then I felt the pain of betrayal and believed that nothing could hurt more than the untruth of the one you loved most.
And now,
I'm throwing up from one too many cigarettes,
one too many drinks,
and I'm starting to believe that nothing hurts worse than feeling nothing at all.

nothing about these moments feel fair,
time keeps passing and i fear that i am growing younger,
that i am becoming more childlike.
i feel small again, like i need to be held.
i tell myself i forgive you,
but i fear the resentment that threatens to surface,
and i'm terrified that it doesn't matter anyway.

i still love you. i don't know if i'll ever stop.
maybe you need me more now than ever,
because i need you, too.
but i fear this nostalgia only exists in my mind,
and i'm terrified that it doesn't matter anyway.

they say if you love something, you should let it it go.
if it comes back to you, it was always yours
if it doesn't return, it was never yours to begin with
you've came and gone so many times that i've let you turn this home into a hotel room,
let you turn the bomb shelter of my arms into just another pair of limbs -
let you leave a vacancy between my fingers where yours once intertwined with mine like a promise.

these days i keep a lock on the door,
guard my heart with my arms crossed.
I keep my hands to myself.
they say if you love something, you should let it go
sometimes letting someone go is the same thing as pushing them away
sometimes letting someone go means holding onto yourself
sometimes letting go means not letting them return,
no matter how hard it is to lose something that once belonged to you.

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.

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.

Good girls in rows of frilly dresses and kitten heels and pigtails
seated with black tie fathers and black eyed mothers
in the sea of hymns and Church bells.
Don't fidget with your fingers,
don't stare at people too long,
don't ask why.

Good girls in short kilts and knee high socks and dark lipstick
seated next to boys in khaki's with hands that move like serpents
in the sea of rumours and stealthy glances.
Don't kiss in the stairwell,
don't talk too loud,
don't ask why.

Good girls with black eyeliner and opened wounds and glazed eyes
seated next to nothing in particular and nothing that matters
in the sea of emptiness that's left behind when they are alone.
Don't let your smile falter,
don't stare at the black pit of your stomach,
don't ask why.

Before it's too late,


                                                         ­  because nothing's worse than
                                                            ­                                                  too
                                                                ­                                                     late.

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.

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.

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.

the memories form a lump in my throat,
the nostalgia - a hard pill to swallow
4 months since you ripped my mouth off your hook and i'm still trying to find my voice to speak
i tell myself its time to write something
write anything, just let it be something

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.

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.

he can't breathe in summer without smelling my perfume
those mid-july kisses always destined for doom
december comes around all too fast,
faced with blurry memories from our past
spring gives birth to a life that don't feel new,
*** the grass ain't greener, just a different hue
time apart from you don't seem to fly by
but when the Sun reaches its highest point in the sky
it somehow always brings him back to me,
hot and sticky nights with my baby

I was 16 years old and wanted to slice myself in half,
wondering if I would ever get the last laugh.
Wondering why the good things never last,
hoping I could one day go down the right path.

I was 16 years old and couldn't think straight,
stuck on the idea that I'd always be too late.
Hoping that the boy would ask me on a date,
Seeing only predictability and self hate.

I was 16 years old with a hair clip and a lighter,
wondering why no one else saw me as a fighter.
Trying different things to make the weight lighter;
mixed in with the invisible's and the over-biters.

I was 16 years old and the timing was always wrong,
feeling like the road of self-destruction was too long.
Doctors telling me what I had known all along,
just waiting for the day that I could sing a new song.

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.

There are many things I can tell you, and many things I cannot.
The amount of battles I've won is much less than the ones I've fought.
But I've got lots of knowledge buried inside my skull
Some of which is morbid, but most of which is dull.

I can tell you how to sweep the kitchen floor without leaving behind crumbs,
I can tell you how to twist a doorknob without using your thumbs.
I can tell you how to get to Union Station from the West-bound train,
I can teach you different pranks that will drive your brother insane.

I can tell you how to sear small burns into your delicate skin,
I can name you all the different pills that will make you thin.
I can tell you how to hurt yourself in places no one will find,
I can tell you how to arrange your coke into a perfect line.

But there are things I cannot say, for I have not discovered:
How to find hope, how to be kind, or how to be a lover.
I'm still learning how to drive my car in standard,
And I'm still trying to figure out how to behave in a polite manner.

Every day I learn, and every day I fail
But my burning desire for growth will always prevail.

Because although I am destructive and ill and cold
And though I am young and foolish and bold
I am still looking forward to what the future will hold
Because there are many things I can tell you, and many things to be told.

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

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.

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.

"If I could paint a picture of how we used to be,
it would be a landscape of a field
with sunflowers that all look the exact same.
The exact same.
Over and over and over again."

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.

Fall is less beautiful at night

When the wind is blowing and you've forgotten your jacket and there isn't enough sunlight to illuminate the colour of the leaves and finally you see the season for what it really is
A season of death.

But we try not to think about it too much.

We are the crack pipe babies,
the suburban rats that lay in fields at 2 am.
We are the children of the night,
We smoke till we can't feel the chill of October anymore.
(we smoke till we can't feel the chill of anything anymore)
We are the boys and girls with holes in our gloves and rips in our boots and parents that swear to love us for the beautiful colours we have grown into to.
But they are colours of dried blood, and rust on metal and stained teeth.
They are the red and brown and yellow of autumn leaves.

We are the Fall.
But Fall is so much less beautiful at night.

I see you in the chair on my front porch when I'm alone and it's dark.

It all goes quiet after a while.

It's easy to lose count of how much you've smoked when the air is cold.
Whether it's puffs of cold air or puffs of cigarette smoke,
I can't tell
It doesn't matter anyway.

**I'm still thinking of you.

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.

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!

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