once i was drunk for the first time
i wanted to be drunk all of the time
but thankfully
i was too broke
to be an alcoholic
that feeling didn't last long
anyways, so i guess i'm safe
got the money now to self-destruct
and yet i shy away
glad that when i felt that pull
i was too broke
to be an alcoholic

things i have learned so far
in university:
how to lie
and how to tell the truth
and how to walk the fine line
between the two
and come out with three words:

i miss you

i step further forward
with every breath
and down deeper
with every step
and i'll give my excuses out loud
to everyone around
except you
branches intertwining above our heads
roots down below, invisible
everything is so much more poetic
less with the carefully thought-out adjectives
and well-placed commas
and more with the phrases
that just drop from the sky
leave the capitals and punctuation behind
i'm forgetting the english language
and i kinda love it
further forward
with every breath
and down deeper
with every
single
lower-case
step

it was another day of
silent singing, mouth closed
hands clenched tight, buried
within the secret of old leather
earphones saving the sound
and spitting it into my mind

the hum of a fluorescent lamp
old, but
it still works

the creak of the bed
as I slide in

the whisper of a foreign room
and the breathing of a strange house
fill my ears

yellow light floods my vision
from the left
the wall, to the right
bears my shadow

I turn
try to catch a glimpse of me
but I am blurred
stretched
in this place
maybe
I am not myself.

the snow outside has become part of the cement
and everywhere there are lights
extinguished, renewed
and all i can think about
is the countdown in my mind, repeating
regrets, forming thoughts, and i think
next year, i would like to learn
how to step in time with the music
that plays in my head
and i would like to learn
how to turn it off
i want to breathe deeper
write more words
inhale the scent of knowledge
that i didn't know existed
and feel alone
in a different, more beautiful way
and yet here i am, sitting
with my feet magnetized to the floor
and my fingers typing, hungry
looking for more
than just the thoughts in my head
i'll think more next year, i promise
although that's an empty threat
since all i ever do is think
my point is, i'm here on my knees
with springtime pulling at my waist
summer shining down on my face
autumn leaves still in my pockets
and winter hot on my heels
kneeling down, bowed
before the end of december
saying
please, january
come save me

you can’t just assume that
i’m gonna swallow these words whole
without trying to digest them
well guess what?
i might have a tough stomach
but when you’re not looking, i turn my head
and i spit your words out
my silent rebellion
trying to tell you, without saying it out loud
that i don’t wanna take this anymore
these sour pills dissolve in my system
and i am left feeling *****
as if your assumptions are seeping into my veins
and becoming a part of me
and who you think i am
is not who i want to be
so as a result
i’ve got a pocket full of these heavy pills
sticky with resentment
as i discreetly pull them from my mouth
and dispose of the evidence, trying
not to tell you that this is not how my mind works
and i go home and write about it instead
hoping that one day you’ll type my name into space
and find my words, arranged in a shape
that desperately tries to explain
why i feel this way
because i could never say this out loud
i could never even print it down, concrete
and pass it forward
to all the people i’m speaking to, writing to
now
i can only hope that you’ll get there on your own
because i feel so weighed down
by these things you say, as you explain to me
that you understand, you get it now
and you present to me my feelings
in a small box, and i open it
and i want to tell you
that you are so, so wrong
you’ve coloured inside the lines
and locked me in
and each time you describe me
to somebody else
each time you warn them
of what you think are my weaknesses
each time you tell them
what makes me strong, what helps me live
you push me further into this corner
of self-doubt, wondering
is this really who i am?
is what you see what everyone thinks of me?
because i am more impressionable
than you imagine, strong in ways you think i can’t be
but weak in ways you’d never believe
and these words leave imprints upon my soul
sinking into my heart like sharp footprints
falling through the cracks of my mind
and now i am occupied
with them, with the idea
that maybe i’ve been wrong about myself
all along
maybe i don’t know who i am
and the rest of you
familiar strangers
are the ones who have painted me, turned me
from my upside-down cocoon
and planted me down into this frozen ground
and i know, the voice in the back of my mind
tells me, no, you know yourself
and they are only taking
the outside parts of you
and constructing a sham, a replica
somebody they think they can dissect
but the problem is
this voice is at its strongest
when everyone is asleep
when the words are done their creeping
and have settled like dust around me
at midnight, at one, at two
and all through the night
i can finally know myself
and point out the fact
that you’re wrong
and i don’t have to go along
with your assumptions, **** your judgement
**** your advice, i’m going at it alone
and my mistakes are my badges
my success is my shield
and i will deflect your forged knowledge
back onto you, force it before your eyes
so you can finally admit
that you do not know me
and you never will
and that’s fine, i just want you to know
that my feelings are mine
and your words are yours
find something else to give me
give me your hand, give me your heart
i don’t even care
but because of you
i stay up, late at night
fingers crossed that you’re thinking of me
enough to search for my name
and find this long rant
in poetry form
and realize
just how wrong you are
and this is not beautiful, this
broken piece of badly worded ****
but i am not beautiful either
this is me on the inside
and now you know, do you get it?
just how wrong you are
and i will not throw these words in your face
i will not wrap these lines around your neck
and i will not leave you with nothing
but a guilty weight
i’ll still be here when you’re awake
i just want the assumptions to stop
the picture i paint and show
is mine alone, not even the frame
is yours to choose
and i ask
can you just let me be
the person i want you to see?
these assumptions are bringing me down
but of course, i’ll always have my language
and i’ll do this, time and time again
release this frustration into rough poetry
and then begin my next day, after a night awake and dreaming
and let you continue
to pick me apart, never quite reaching
the centre, and yet i’ll take it anyways
because that’s what you expect me to do
and i will let you remain unsurprised
fingers crossed all the while
hands in my pockets, juggling those pills
this is me on the inside
but you don’t need to know that, do you?

i have always wished to find
the word
ephemeral
and the fabric
gossamer
among true, hard life
these angelic combinations
of stupid, insipid letters
tell me, where's the magic?

time passed with you
is time well wasted
change well made
from bills well spent
and i am bent out of shape
from all these round rhyming words
bowed to the ground
at the feet of this feeling
confused as all hell
(however unpoetic that may be,
it's how it is)
at the line between
beauty and truth
between outside and underground
uncomfortable heat and ignored cold

weird words, but that's all i've got
i'll shout them underground, unheard
or silently
to the cold, rushing river
or whisper them to myself
but that's it
(however dishonest that may be,
it's how i am)
and these simple words
primary colours:

red is telling me
that the pink in your cheeks
is diluted, and i don't want to know
what that real colour means

blue is saying
that the ice in the air means nothing
and that melancholy has no place
in the space between our hands
since we close that
a million times a day
and it is forced to escape our grasp

yellow tells me
that the sun is shining, somewhere
and i reply that i don't even care
it's sunny here, even underground
face turned round to meet yours
i'll survive

time passed with you
is time well wasted
change well made
from bills well spent
and i may be broke
but trust me
it's been worth it, throwing
colourful Monopoly money
imagined riches and caution
to the wind
with you

the air today was inviting
cold, it's true, but still
there was something about the way
the sunlight shone unfiltered
and fell upon the ice
that held stubbornly to the cracks in the sidewalk
something that made me think:

good things will happen today

and perhaps they did, but i am still unsure
as to whether this chill
and the fact that it no longer pervades my veins
signifies a step upwards
or a steady slide down
and as winter rolls in
on splintery, frozen wheels
i feel a crushing sense of foreboding
and i look up into the sky
so i can ignore the ground
that i might fall into, making me think:

what if nothing is what i think it is?

what if i am somewhere else?
not on this beautifully ambiguous cloud
not stepping through an open door
but out a window?
what if the things said today were heavier
more weighted
than i hoped they would be?
these words poke me, **** me
almost into submission, and you don't know it
but i am simultaneously
opening my eyes and arms to you
and crouching, shivering, shuddering
in a corner, afraid of what you think
when you look at me, and i want to know:

what do you see?

are you looking at me
through rose-coloured glasses
through a lens of colourful fall leaves
through the sun shining upon my face
in all these beautiful places
what do you see?
and i want to know:

what do you feel?

when you place your hand neatly
among the folds of my clothing
and somehow find my waist
when you duck your head down
and breathe
comfortably into the nape of my neck
when my head rests in the crook of your elbow
and i play hide-and-seek with your eyes
ashamed, but you take it as shy
i want to know:

what is this?

in the space of a year
i have found a lifetime, pocketed
the words of wisdom, every single one
from the sidewalk, *****
but still, i've found some use
for these single lines of poetry
did you know that
footsteps in snow will melt away
come springtime?
the cold blue sky whispered to me
letting me know that
the frozen feeling would not last forever
footsteps on my heart will eventually fade
did you know that
sunsets are not forever?
there is no permanent marker
colouring the sky in with black
the dark fades away like blue dye
in the wash, and by the morning
those old jeans will fit again
and the sun will rise
familiar and bright
and maybe this time you'll be able to raise your head
from the clouds gathered round your mind
and get out of bed
did you know that
there will always be somebody else?
i learned that arms are open
somewhere, someone is standing there
hands stretched out
just waiting for that puzzle piece to come along
in the space of a year
i have grown taller
in confidence
i have grown smaller
from the tears i have shed, every memory
i've had to leave behind
has lightened my step
in the space of a year i have changed
learned to make poetry
out of anything

and one day i thought
i’d like to see the world through my father’s eyes
all roots and vines
and the simple need to create
and the feeling of dirt between your fingers
what does it feel like
to understand how the world works?
not its people, no, more important than that
how the seeds and the buds
and the soil interact
how to make something from nothing
from a small speck enveloped by your hand
i don’t understand
but you do
and we are the same height, but when i look at you
i am looking up
i am looking forward into the horizon
trying to see the sunset like you do
trying to understand the weary way you sit down
and the tired vigor with which you rise early each morning
to begin the cycle again
and i see you standing there, immobile
leaning for a brief moment on the handle of your *****
and i see the world dancing around you
just waiting for the movement of your hands, waiting
for the next order, the next command
the next request, as you begin again
and i try to understand
today, i thought
i'd like to see the world through my father's eyes

all i can think is
i wish i was the wild one
wild sister of the street
wild mother of the hungry sky
something poetic
like wild girl, roaming
more than just a wisp born
of country air
wild wind, ******* forward
through the field
across a country deep and cracked
until i reach the skyline
scrapers extending beyond the reach
of any mountain, and the stars rest
above the smog of the home
where the wild ones rest
where the wild ones lie awake
and i can camouflage myself
in the darks and reds and glittery bedspreads
and be wild
in a different way
paint me wild, paint me
green and blue with envy
paint my cheeks white, paint over the pink
of stale summer air
all i can think is
i wish i was the wild one
break away, go some place
where i can tell my story a million different ways
and they might believe me
make me wild in another way
no more ***** shoes or burdock-ridden hair
give me sharp heels, black combat
sleek and shiny, change me
make me wild
and i sink to my knees
sink into the soft, welcoming concrete
and say please, city
change me

here i am, horizontal again
spread out along the furniture
curled up into the corner
tilted, twirling through
a stationary dream
horizontal, parallel with the smooth mountains
and the sun rises and sets
with my breathing
horizontal, like the sand dunes stretching
connect-the-dots with every oasis
dry land, searching for water
here i am, horizontal again
lying down, searching for the words
that will bring my feet back down to earth
and the seeds
that will plant my soles firmly into the carpet
and let me go on with my day

the wind bit me, scratched at my back
as i struggled along the sidewalk
thinking
about nothing, about something
that could have been nothing
if i’d just let it be
here i am again, entangled in the bare branches
of an honest winter, a comforting cold
soft snow upon my shoulders
and i just can’t bring myself to reach up
and brush it off
here i am again, outside
despite the frostbite creeping through the sky
and the threat of colder nights
i feel warm
and i know this is the warning sign
a few days before the loss of limbs
a few weeks after i stepped out
and lost myself in the blinding white
here i am again, pulling on my gloves
laces tied, hands in pockets
prepared this time
and yet i am never ready, never fully closed
and the cold air seeps in through the seams
and into my bones
and i shiver
in a good way
letting winter bring me home

i wonder
if i stripped this black liner
from my eyelids
if I scratched the pink
from my cheeks
if i showed my true colours
(not much different from the mask, but still
it feels like it to me)
i wonder
if i pulled my second skin, peeled
away the layer of doubt
would you still find me
beautiful?

things i have begun to remember:

the last time i stood in full sunlight
i felt like i was drowning

the last time i swam upwards
i broke the rough surface, gasping for air
and you were there

i have not met your eyes
in a year and a half
at least, not in person
and this brings me to my knees
and in my head, i hear you
saying drink

the last time i stood in full sunlight
i was drunk and drowning in you

vim and vigor
**** and vinegar
stale old sayings that still ring true
and i'm people-watching again
putting words to their steps
pulling phrases from the books i read
when i was a child
and dressing them up like dolls
in their own descriptions

some game, i think to myself
as the lines drift round their heads
like prickly crowns
we define ourselves with these words
with things unthinkingly said
and we wear them
like capes or like armour
like medals or like long baggy sweaters
displaying or betraying
the true poetry inside

i'm people-watching again
noticing how we take these words and use them
to excuse ourselves, to explain ourselves
to take the disdain and refrain from believing
our own homegrown lines
for some reason, the words that come
from other mouths
are the ones we take as truth

vim and vigor
now that's a compliment
**** and vinegar
take that with a grain of salt
by default, your own voice comes first
so describe yourself wisely

i'm people-watching again
shielding myself from the poetry of it all

How am I supposed to sleep
knowing you’re awake?

I’ll just sit here, thinking long thoughts
and writing short things,

keeping active, as my brain runs
out of ideas, out of letters

and a song from yesterday, today
plays in my head, lending rhythm to my words.

How am I supposed to hear that verse
without singing along?

I’ll just sit here, tapping my fingers
on the crumpled sheets.

I’ll just sit here, marking paper
with cheap ink and easy lines

and tonight, my writing finds itself
alone again, while I sit

knowing you’re awake.
I’ll write my way to morning,

find a path among the short things I’ve written
til I can say “goodnight.”

at first, you sat in my heart
in your own little rocking chair
and it was like you had always been there
but then
(and here comes the metaphor)
you sat on my heart
and if that wasn't bad enough
you stood up and grabbed it
fingers digging in
and stuffed it in your pocket
chair under one arm
and walked away
leaving me, like
hey

things i have come to realize:

i have not lit a candle in a very long time
and i miss that real flame

i have not gone a day without music
since the last time life was silent
i was afraid

i have not heard your voice
in a year and a half
at least, not in person
and this strikes me to the ground
and in my head, i hear you
yell timber

i have not lit a candle in a very long time
not since the last time i got burned

2:50 a.m. and the words just flow
crookedly, but at least they're there
and i bow down to the darkness
for giving me some semblance
of light
in the form of letters, perhaps
but still, something shines
at this time of the night
or the morning, the power
of being there when the numbers change
it feels like control
2:52 a.m. and the words just dance
and i am a puppeteer

the floor is cold, and its comfort
seeps upwards into the soles
of my feet, magnetized
and so i am forced to stay awake
my fingers are working on their own
and i'm not sure what my mind is doing
but i know my heart is beating
out a pattern
of slow, confused wonder
at how late it is
and i write things like
i look out the window, and the snow
reflects onto the sky
and the stars look down
and the trees look down
and i close the blinds
nights like this, i just look for beauty
and i stay up, erasing youth from my face
in an effort to find the knowledge
that will allow me to say i have lived
and i write things like
i want to open the window
and jump, land lightly
onto the frozen cement
and explore the street
see if it's any different
at this hour, when the beautiful
navy blue, pinstriped with black
has settled upon us
will it be beautiful?
nights like this, i need that feeling
and i try my hardest
to be poetic

a winding road
and up ahead, a dark expanse
of water
it rained recently, and i'm wearing my boots
and for some reason that puddle is just
too tempting
you know that feeling?
it looks like fun
the damp leaves above my head whisper
go for it, what's the harm?
after all, you've got your boots on
so i step forward, confidence heavy
upon my chilled shoulders
and that is when i realize
just how ******* deep this puddle is
you know that feeling?
it looked like fun
and now the muddy water is spilling
over the tops of my boots
and my feet are swimming
in stale rain
and it sounds stupid, but i feel like i'm drowning
and the dead brown leaves on the rough cement whisper
now you've done it
you're in too deep

and i try to let go of your hand
but something stops me
some casual phrase, a few words
stitched together
and the thread tugs at my skin, saying
what's the problem?
we'll fix you
and i read the words again
realizing just how human everyone is
and feeling excluded
i don't get it
except maybe now i do
and i try to extract my arm
from around your waist
but something stops me

and the crooked bare branches above our heads whisper
now you've done it
you're in too deep
and the water is so ******* cold

late night talking, but i can't tell
if i'm talking to myself
or to somebody else
and everything i say is either real
or just rhyming with reality
and to be honest
i don't know the difference anymore
i'll tell you, in words
overflowing with the truth
spilling out through the cracks of uncertainty
falling to the floor as lies
because
this is how it feels
and it feels like the only truth i've ever told
the rest is false, but at least i can tell you
that before the words left my mouth
they were flesh and ink and blood and water
alive and kicking, swimming
stabbing little things
but there's something about the night air
or the sunshine
or the real life, i don't know
whatever i'm missing, it affects them
like putting them in brackets
(emotions become afterthoughts)
like adding quotations
"this was said by someone else"
like ending the sentence
there are no more true words.

explain to me the difference
between open and closed
negative and positive, for i am told
that it is negative to be closed
and yet being proactive, a positive person
i am shut down, and fine with it
sometimes
i give in, and i open
some small window
every once in a while
somewhat drunk, under some influence
and i give in to the theory
the convention
that it will make me feel better to do so
so i do
and instead, i feel
different
that’s all i can say, as the breeze drifts through
the rift i have made
and the air is cold as it touches my veins
and i want to close the window again
but the glass is broken
and i will never be the same

a jewel of a lake, hanging
from a rough gold chain of stars
summer air and midnight sounds
quiet water, echoing
loud beneath the old wood
bare feet touching sand, pockets
filled with pebbles
i sat down
eyes closed
and i felt my heartbeat

i opened my eyes to grey
to rain, to fog, to half past autumn
soggy leaves on the cracked cement
and the lake and stars only a lament
playing in my ears, fondly
saying goodbye
and i thought i would be still
i thought i would be calm
empty, sitting here
among dead trees
but i looked to my right
a familiar face
and i felt my heartbeat
missing summer less and less
each day

playing cards, flinging numbers on the table
conversations leading nowhere
and i sit on the outside, watching us
and analyzing the game
i see your head tilt, i see your mouth crack
wide open and speak
and i see the words, read their shape
and watch the colours fade in the air
to match the grey of today
and i wish that i could reach out
and touch them, try to brush
the colour back into your voice
but instead
no matter how hard i try
the words are stale, the cards are bent
by the time they reach my ears
and land lightly upon the inside curve, soft and dark
still nice, still present
and i guess i don’t mind the lack of colour
besides, i know that if i really wanted to
i could move closer and catch the words
catch your voice
as it leaves your lips
and intercept it before it can fade
taste the colours instead
and it’s nice to know i have that option
so i stand here and watch this interaction
watch the card game, hearts and spades
and analyze each move
black and red and white
and colourful
just waiting for the game to end

hold your tongue, i said
i'm tired of these bleeding words
and i passed you the gauze
slipping my fingers through the maze of your palm
and out through the cracks
hold your tongue, i said
i want to feel these words instead
pretend i am paper
and bend me, press your lips
to me and whisper the letters
and i will fold myself over them
hold your tongue, i said
i love the noise but i love the silence more
just the sound of me
drinking in those phrases, swallowing
air as i try for more
hold your tongue, i said
hold my waist, catch the words
as they drip down from my forehead
sweating ink onto my shoulders
use the silence to soak up the meaning
of each and every one
hold your tongue, i said
and the words will come, riding
upon waves and i will swim
with you to dry land
give me your hand, and i will guide your pen
down along my spine, across
the sand dunes of my shoulders, through
the space between my collarbones
let the ink bleed into my hairline
let the words sink into my skin
as i let you mark me up, graffiti
in the best sense of the word, badass
but secretly
hold your tongue, i said
and take my hand
pretend i am paper
unfold me

there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your spirits up
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling, and today i found myself
noticing things that don't belong
i saw icicles under a warm sun, dripping
back down into the earth in shame
i saw a streetlamp, still lit at noon
and its light was orange and dark against the sky
but i did not see myself
turning to look at that space in between
this place and the world outside
the train window, taunting me
with an almost-reflection, my eyes hollowed out
to make room for the sunlight
and i realized
today i am noticing things that don't belong
and i belong
so i stopped looking for myself, and i was found
beneath that useless streetlamp, waiting
for the icicles to melt away
and they did, leaving me calm
and on dry ground
there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your feet moving
to keep your spirits up
to keep your eyes open
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling

I’m really not here today,
not really in time with the rest of the world,
just floating,
generic and grey,
through the hands of the clock
as if they were made of water.
Time today
ebbs and flows, a tidal wave
of muddy water,
and with each hard hit to the face,
each urgent push at my back,
I am angry,
a strange sentiment,
so alien that I didn’t recognize
its face
until just now,
and I figured that if it were to stay hidden
(for it must stay hidden)
then I should probably write it out,
fling these feelings at the screen
and forget.
However, the right adjectives,
the beautiful nouns and the glorious verbs
are not coming to me
and it hurts to admit it, but
I am still angry.

you make me feel beautiful
and that, to me
is a superpower
your cape of words, your compliments
keep saving me, and i swear
there’s something surreal here, insane
i feel lifted, caught
by more than just the wind beneath my feet
no, i’m more poetic than that
i feel
almost worth it, almost beautiful
almost ready

oh my goodness, this man's hands
are beautifully sad, all thin
and winding themselves into the fence
as he waits for the train
and then he turns, cigarette clenched
between thin lips
and scowls in my direction
and suddenly, those hands
are foul and *****,
becoming part of the chain-link metaphor
for loneliness
all i can think today is
wow, people ****

four squares, now three
of dark chocolate, the kind of dark
that makes me feel like a grown-up
although it's childish of me to say it that way
but then again, it's been that kind of day
and that kind of chocolate, only two squares left now
and the sweetness is never enough
to drown out the bitterness of five cups of coffee
oxygen staining my cheeks a bright pink
as i move through a tiring day, drinking
cup after cup of darkness, feeling
shot after shot of energy, extending
my day, inch by inch
cup by cup
square by square, almost midnight
and there's only one left
one crutch
and yet i know there are excuses
for these vices
after all, it's not *******
i say this every day, to each complaint
and my hand wavers a bit, the left one
sometimes it shakes
and i clench it tight, proving that i can still control myself
it's only a side effect
of something, anything
these are only crutches, just
something, anything
to push me through the day
and up through the night, until finally
i can sleep
and it feels right

does it make me weird
if i’m still thinking about it?
i swear it’s nothing but the good;
five or so hours later and i can still feel
your hands, running smooth lines up my back
and rough ones from my hip up to my hair,
almost desperate in their attempt
to hold on.
i was there, fully aware
of you, you and your shifting footsteps,
off-balance, while i stood and tried
to keep the cold at bay-
even though my skin was chilled,
my bones were warm and stable
and i did what i could to keep us from falling,
tumbling onto the grass
although
i may have thought about
the cold ground, and considered it
as an option.
is it strange
that i am writing about this?
tell me, is it so bad that i just want
to tell someone, to explain myself, to say
that i’m still drunk,
almost six hours later now, intoxicated
with that worn-out metaphor, but it describes this
perfectly,
this weird haze of colourful clarity
that separates me, even now
from the cold, dark wind.
i feel drunk, and i’ve felt it before
and i know that when i wake up tomorrow
there will be no headache, no regret
only a small, knowing smile on my face
as i get up, get dressed
and shove my hands in my pockets, fingers crossed
that you and i will go drinking again today.

we were having
a beautiful conversation
and then you used the phrase:
"that ***** monkey *****"
and ruined my poem
**** you, i said
to the half-moon clippings
as i trimmed my nails at 2 am
this will never be a masterpiece now

this was once
an empty page
i filled it
wishing all the rage
of another poet's words
upon the paper
since i have none of it

this was once
an empty page
i stole the space, stained it
with my own black-and-blue lines
like small, needlepoint bruises
saying
this will only hurt a little
but still
i'm glad it's not me bearing the burden
of all these words

this was once
an empty page
and i bow down to your strength, dear paper
for taking upon your shoulders
every scratch that i offer
every scene i remember

this was once
an empty page

i filled it
and now i am empty again

Only a crack,
a fissure between the fabric and the wall;
but the sunlight is bright enough
to make me want to close my eyes.
I don't, though;
darkness is not an option today.

this is what you get when you are honest
like, really honest
like, the kind of honest where it takes you an hour
to find the courage to be yourself
and have it choked back down
by your own clenching jaw, saying
stop it with that honesty, idiot
you're making a fool of yourself
if those tears let loose
your pride will trickle out with them
and we can't have that can we?
this is what you get when you are honest
no
this is what you get when you try to be honest
a reminder
that it's a virtue best left untouched
or at least framed
like a pretty picture
a painting of pride
once the acrylic has dried
(and it doesn't take long)
you'll be fine

radio silence
now, that's nice
keep it up, dear midnight world
and i will be there with you
writing words
to fill the pinpricks left by stars
that died a long time ago, hey
somebody's gotta do it
may as well be me

oh ****, a feeling
of foreboding, lusting after my shadow
nipping at my heels, and i hate it
i can't help but curse the ground i walk on
for showing my footprints, because now
this feeling has followed me home
**** cement, **** worn-down road
**** every hard surface
because all i want to do is lie down
mid-stride, in the middle of crossing
i just want to sleep, rip the pounding bass from my ears
and be awash with silence
except i know, logically
that i might die
would it be worth it? somehow i doubt that
but still, it's just that every time i feel this way
all i can think is
stop
drop
and roll, something is on fire
and from within the icy confines of my hard bone structure
comes a voice, saying
oh please, **** cement god
please let it be me

it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath

it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes

it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside

it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along

it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time

it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting

it was a day of waiting

I kept hearing poetry today,
and like a true critic
I skimmed the cream off the milk
and saved the best bits for later,
dismissing the rest as trivial, general
life.
I edited, cut, nip-and-tuck jobs
to the words that I found on the road,
and the ones left lying under my chair
I straightened out, ironed
until they were good as new.
I took glue to my wanton collection,
pasted together each part of each story
and tried to make the edges fit.
I kept hearing poetry today,
and this is what I made of it:

it's not so bad out there today
sit down, girl, you're gonna fall
he's wrong again, i'm tired of this
i agree with you, go for it
sometimes it's good to talk about it
well, that's messed up
here, let me help you with that
you're beautiful
a compliment always does the trick
are you ready yet?
the day is finally over, thank god

That last one was me
as the door slammed shut
and the wild poetry was left outside
to consort with the wind
and bother somebody else.

"surprise me"
that's what i wanted to say
ever felt like i held back? well i did
but it's not what you think at all, no wall
hiding unknown i don't love you's
or small problems just waiting to erupt, no
that isn't it, i just wanted to say
"surprise me"

but i never let myself ask
and i truly believe this was the right decision
because i can live with suspense
and with secret resentment
and comfortable silence, but never
never with disappointment
and i know for a fact that "surprise me"
would have surprised you, taken aback
you would have been like a fish out of water
that classic old term, gasping
for the air necessary to comply
and you would have died like that, thrashing out
a clear pattern onto the soft grass, spelling
"sorry"

and maybe this image is too violent
for such a trivial thing
but the fact is, it's like that to me
a life-or-death moment, that question
because if you can't surprise me
"please, anything, do it for me"

if you can't surprise me
then nobody can
and i know you can't
so nobody can

there's gotta be somebody out there
who can surprise me

Before you fall in love,
you think you want it
and you let that want
put you to sleep at night
like a lullaby.
When you're in love,
you think you understand it,
bathing in the dangerous comfort
that keeps you up at night
like a fast-paced song
or an off-colour thought.
But when you've let love run its course,
no remorse,
low pain, high tolerance
and closure
that settles into your skull
like fine, wise dust-
then, you actually understand love,
you get it now,
and the colours painting the world around you
move in different strokes,
some cynical, but now you know
that nothing will ever be as clear, or
as clean
as that first time,
and that some bittersweet
is okay when it comes to memory-
you're done with clean, now it's time
for gloriously, beautifully *****.

broken coffee machines, broken hearts
broken
duct tape winding around the base
of a soul still good enough to sell
and i pull the price tag off your neck
to see if i can afford the time it would take
to crazy glue you back together
and i decide it's an investment i'm willing to make
so here, let's do this
the natural way
if that's okay
i'll take my skin, this expanse
here, running down from my chin to my waist
and use it, press it
against the worn patches of your torso
try and sew you up
with body heat
here, i'll take my arm, extend a hand
and run it down, down where the skin becomes soft
and your breath becomes hard
and i'll say
keep breathing, i'll show you how
broken heart, you say?
broken coffee machine, that's nothing
i have caffeine to spare, coming out
the tips of my fingers
and i am willing to share
broken heart, that's nothing
i have staples
that will take the oxygen from your lungs
and feed it straight into your veins
and you are going to like it
no garage sale, duct taped to the core
for you
you're going to be shiny and new
broken coffee machine, i'll fix it
and give it away
and take you instead
for free

i’m here again, inches away
from the surface of the bathroom mirror
at an unhealthy angle
twisting my vision
back and forth
frowning, smiling, frowning again
watching craters turn back into pores
as i move away
then back again
scrutinizing
each and every hair, every line
every possible sign
that i might be human
the bathroom mirror
has me convinced that i am
and as i turn my head the other way
trying to see if my profile is any better
than it was yesterday
i can’t help but wonder
after seeing myself up close
how it is that you could stand to kiss me
but then again
i guess your eyes are closed

hey you
i’d just like to offer
a silent, heartfelt thank you
for a few words that struck me
down, falling through
that veil of reality
and arriving, finally
in a place where i was alive for a moment
so weird, breathless
that i actually held my hand
to my chest
if seeing is believing, then
i truly believe
that the palm of my hand
saw my heart beat, so
hey you
i’d just like to offer
the smile that cracked my jawline
wide open, i’ll hold it
in my hands, saying
hey you, look what you did
you broke me
thank you

well, 1:59 am
old friend, here you are again
and here i am
caffeine coursing through my body
and keeping me upright, in tune with
the time zones
as i wait for 2 o’clock
and i have so many words
(2 am, there you are)
to write, but at this hour
i can never tell what order to put them in
so my poetry, my thoughts
are muddled
but whatever, i guess we all have those moments
those 2: 01 am moments
where the world makes so much sense
and you want to scream it out the window
to the population of the universe:
i understand! i get it now, at 2:02 in the morning
i understand everything, ask me anything
and i will fix it for you, answer your doubts
all-knowing, at 2:03 am
sitting solitary in the dark,
typing out nonsense
and thinking it means something
but hey, at least i got enlightenment
out of this experience, some realization
because seriously
i think i get it now
but of course, at some point
i will go to sleep
and when i wake up
the revelation will have disappeared
sunk back into the deep, into the dark
into the 2:04 am of my heart
and i will have to wait, counting down
until i can feel like this again
all-knowing and calm
powerful, small and unashamed
and i will wait up, time and time again
eyes flickering back and forth
until i can say
hey there, 2:05 am
how i have missed you

roundabout, unsteady weight
of my feet upon the sidewalk, sinking
deep into the cracks of drug dealers
and ambling adolescents
and old mothers
and young fathers, and whatever else
this city has to offer, its population
unknown to me, bewildering
since where i come from, everybody
has a name
and i know it
so this is weird
the imbalance between known
and unknown, the strange feeling
of a shift in the atmosphere that follows me
the loss of control that i feel
when i step down from the bus and make my way
through the crowd, feeling drunk
and off-kilter, feeling like
a drifting newspaper, out of date
trying to find some sense of community
but instead i find only small relationships
each separate from the other
each with a different dynamic, a different colour
a different reason for staying together
a different reason for falling apart
(and that happens
so much faster here)
and yet somehow i find that
i like it this way
having so many little lives, towns
to choose from
that there is always somebody, somewhere
willing to brighten my day
and so i think i’ll be okay, i’ll transition
into a city girl, all hardened and shiny
and maybe even stylish
with only the roots of my home peeking out
from beneath my feet, saying
don’t forget
and i won’t
i promise
city slicker pinky swear