i'm sorry love
but I can't get up
to play with you today.
I used to have
all this life in me
but it's up and gone away.

come sit on my bedside,
i'll tell you of the times
we used to have,
yes, I miss the days like that,
but the memories still make me glad.

I wish I had known then
that I was running out of time.
when we ran free never fearing that
soon it would no longer
all be just fine.

but there's nothing that you can do
so, please, there's no need to cry.
I can't play with you today, my love,
but tomorrow I will try.

crying on my
bathroom floor:
God
is
Not
Here.

crying in the
parking lot:
God
is
Not
Here.

swelling in my
spleen and liver:
God
is
Not
Here.

8 more weeks
spent in bed:
God
is
Still
Not
Here.

it seems like He is
picking on me,
saying,
"ha ha! look at you!
i'm going to give you
the grandest of dreams but
you'll be gone by 32."

i have no doubts
when they say that in heaven
the weather is always
fair,

but
one day I will
go to meet him.

he will not be there.

Being alone is nice sometimes,
but it can be very lonely too.
Seeing all the fun that they can have
doing things you can no longer do.

It feels like God is picking on me,
saying "Haha look at you!
I'm going to give you the grandest dreams
but you'll be gone by 32."

I try to talk to the people around
although it seems that they don't understand.
I can't really do all the things I would like,
but i'm trying the best that I can.

I used to find pleasure in the simple things,
like a beer and a bask in the sun.
The era of joy and stars in my eyes
it seems is finally done.

So please reserve your judgements until you
can feel what I feel inside.
Don't tell me how to spend my time
when it's a pain to be alive.

I've been trying to find a way to live
while also struggling to survive.
So ******* until you've died and come back to life
before you could even drive.

And when I decide it's my time to go,
you can bet I won't be sober.
I bought the ticket, I took the ride,
but now Football Season Is Over.

how are you supposed to feel
when they tell you,
hey kid,
i’m sorry,
we found the beginnings to that thing
that almost killed your grandmother
and took the life out of your aunt
and is currently killing your uncle
and will probably **** you.

but she smoked her whole life,
I said.
and so did she.
and so did he.
then I remembered that first
time I picked up a cigarette when
I was just 14.

under the bridge,
with some paints,
and a light in my eyes that I
never knew could go away.

“genetic predisposition” says he,
wise man in a white coat.
but he doesn’t understand how
this is just
another hill on a very
windy road.
the one that
put me in the hospital
during my senior year spring break
and is the reason I have to explain
to a boy what Illness is
before he
takes off my shirt.

i’m in the bed under those
blinding florescent lights,
i’m scared and crying.
and very, very alone.

this is not the first time,
and not the last time,
that i
will be here.
It will happen again
and again
and a young, blonde nurse
with big glasses and a brilliant smile
will look at me with
pitty in her eyes
and tell me everything will
be alright.

but it won’t
and that’s okay.

give me a light,
will ya?

writing with a
cigarette in hand

writing with a
stain on my shirt

writing with a
bruise on my lip

trying to pretend
that your words
never hurt


sleeping with out
you

dreaming of good
times

drinking glasses
of malt whiskey

walking through dark
alleys with you
on my mind


I cannot get
past you

no matter how
hard i try

now every hello
i’ve said since you
left

tastes of your
eyes in that
moment you said
goodbye

Can’t sleep
           not even a wink
                   you could say I’m restless.
No air in my lungs
                       i’m left here gasping
                                               you could say I’m breathless.

The water in my eyes
                               done dried up
                                                     no more time for tears.
After a while I was numb to it all
                                                      so I got no
                                                                ­     hopes or fears.

My heart tore from my hollow chest
                                                       so I ain’t got none
                                                                ­               left for giving.
The good part is that
                                   you can’t die
                                                 if you were never really living.

tactile was ivory fingertips on ivory keys,
passion was ballads of heartbreak and mornful melodies,
melancholy was cargo hanging under my eyes,
wistfullness was empty laughs and heavy sighs.

dejected was weighted arms and tarnished mirrors,
lethargic was xanax breakfast and whiskey tears,
restless was never asleep before three,
a shadow was all you seemed to have left of me.

solitude was choosing to spend my time alone,
but lonliness is now no one picks up the phone.
heartbreak is the promises i always thought you'd keep,
i'm tired, so tired, it's time for me to sleep.

Oh, dearest land of Nod,
why must you tease me so?
Every night I see your gates,
but in to them I never go.

Oh, my dearest land of Nod,
they say your grass is green!
I've heard tales of your cerulean skies,
but they too, I have not seen.

Oh, the dearest land of Nod,
I yearn to eat your fruits.
My mates sashe through your fields of whey,
But I can never follow suit.

My heart aches for the terminal fate
that I should never bask in your light.
We could never be, you see,
for I am too in love with Night.

I don’t want to be loud
anymore

I don’t want to be different
anymore

I don’t want people
to know my name
and look at me
when I cross the street

I don’t want to be
“the girl with the crazy hair”
or "the girl with that
tattoo on her skin"

I don’t want to be angry
I don’t want be argumentative
or always having to stand up for
something

I don’t want to be strong
or resilient
or righteous
or passionate
or intense
or spirited
or ostracized
anymore

It’s so tiring
and now I’m tired
too

I’m not so sure I want to be anything
anymore

It means tired.
It means tears.
It means visits to the doctor every week
and the hospital every month.
It means medicine.
It means side effects.
It means I'm weak.
It means "My bones hurt, I can't hang out today.
I'm sorry. I'll see you next week."
It means I can never call back.

It means a fight every day.
It means weight loss.
It means weight gain.
It means I hate myself.
It means surgery.
It means scars.
It means ugly.
It means I hate myself.
It means I can never win.

It means pain.
It means worry.
It means i'll see death when I'm fourteen and
come back to earth in an ambulance.
It means trauma.
It means terror.
It means I see my dad cry.
It means flashbacks.
It means nightmares.
It means I can never sleep again.

It means fustration.
It means desolation.
It means hopelessness.
It means depression.
It means I take a bottle of Tylenol and sleeping pills because
every day is worse than the one before.
It means I throw it all up the next day.
It means I can never win.

It means days in bed.
It means no more dreaming.
It means I can never win.
It means I can never win.
"I'm sorry, I'll see you next week."

with careful consideration
of my own internal views,
I find that these shades of grey
are now my only hues.

in a life once so electric,
vivacious and bright,
the glisten has been dulled
by invariable plight.

all ends of the spectrum
have faded to black,
and I don't think that these colors
will ever come back.

in the cold of the night,
I search for what's true.
I yearn for your touch,
even the memories would do.

i stick them together
with tape and with glue,
anything I can think of
to hold on to you.

but I can't run forever
in a race I won't win,
I don't recall where I started,
where did we begin?

was it your eyes or your charm
that kept me at bay?
was it my heart or my demons
that pushed you away?

I guess I'll never know
now I'm stained navy blue,
but I'll color me perfect
if I can hold on to you.

It takes a special breed of fool
to touch a hot pan twice,
well I've grabbed it
about four times now,
it's just another sorely vice.

I'm playing a game with penance
and pain;  another reckless thing I do.
So add it to my
smoking,
drinking,
and coming back to you.

You were a strong man,
the strongest I ever knew,
forged from the steel of our city,
blood like oil off the iron tracks.

When I came home with C’s,
you looked me in the eyes and
said I could do more,
but that you loved me anyways,
and no mark would ever change that.

The games of cards and dominoes,
interrupted by grandma in the kitchen,
Mangia! Mangia!
I only beat you once.

You were no angel,
you had your vices too,
like the day you hit Nona,
and she threw the coffee on you.

Like the nights at the casino,
and days spent at the track,
but after I was born,
you entered combat.

I know you lied to me when
you said that you never
went back.
I hope you know
I would never hate you for that.

I’ll never forget the day
I heard, They told me to be strong.
God knows I was trying,
but you looked at me only for a moment

before we both started crying.
I knew right then and there,
you were really dying.
I hoped that they were lying.

Your physical therapist took me aside,
he told me you tried harder
when I was in the room,
so from that day I knew
what I really meant to you.

But stare at you mournfully
was all I could do. It was all I could do.
I’m sorry, Nono.
I’ll always miss you.

You were gone before I had time,
to show you that I could do,
what you always said I could,
what no one else ever knew.

The picture on my bedside,
will stay there forever.
I prayed every day that
you would get better.
I was just a kid. A wish can’t
change the weather.

You were gone long before
they buried you. Your spirit
wasn’t wild, you didn’t
laugh like you used to.

I lost you, but the man
with the chain still
sat in your chair.
I tried and tried to find you but
it was clear you were not there.

He told me the same joke
every time I said hello,
the same one you told me
many years ago.

I knew he was not you,
because you knew that I
already know.
It’s time to let you sleep,
Nono.

I never wanted to lose you.
I never wanted to be alone.

What do they call you when
You're not a lover
or a fighter?
What do they call you when
You chain smoke
On the balcony
And do nothing
But exist?

Not a lover or a fighter
No passion anymore
Just cigarettes and
Wine and books
And an empty bed.

I take all the bottles off
My nightstand.
6
One for forgotten lovers
Two for the eternal crack in the mirror
And three more because
I don't know when to stop.

Grey in a sea of vibrant blues,
Grey in a world of beautiful hues

so I sit here again and
tell these woes to
my pen because

No one cares about the one
Who chain smokes
On the balcony
And does nothing
But exist.

a doer of nothing,
a bucket of sorrow,
I've abandoned today
and discarded tomorrow

it's a desolate day,
a melancholias month,
i finally decided that
I've had quite enough.

Welcome, Sorrow,
my old friend.
They said it’d get better,
but they never told me when.

All the nights that I’ve spent
dreaming of the day
that I awake in the morning
to the absence of pain

But much like the spring
in the dead of December;
it’s something I imagine,
yet cannot remember.

one day as we
were on the couch
intertwined, like lovers
he told me that
he didn't like bukowski
because he
was
weird

I said
yeah
I understand
he's a strange
one

my eyes fell
silent
but my mind
flashed back to all
the nights I spent
with a lit cigarette
in my mouth
and Post Office
in my hand

I remembered all
the times I ran
with tears streaming down
my chest
to the books beside
my bed
and wept into
the words of the ones
like me

I thought of
all the moments
I thought I
couldn't do it
anymore
and I crawled
with bruises on my back
and bandaged
my heart
with the words of
the ones
like
me

I guess I will never
know the touch
of love
of holding hands
on the street
and a nice house
in the neighborhood
with curtains
that match
the
pillows

I was meant
for rooftops
and sinners
and poems of
heartbreak
and loathing in
Las Vegas

so I left the couch
and stumbled
home
so I could
climb into bed
and read the stories
of all the bukowskis
and the thompsons
and the plaths
and the faulkners
and all the
weird
crazy
tortured
wild
sad
violent
reckless
true
passionate
ones

the
ones
like
me

alone,
alone,
always alone,
this emptiness, it knows me;
"hey, welcome home!"

the doormat is missing,
the windows are cracked,
the sadness, it knows me;
"glad you have to back!"

the bedroom is empty,
but for a pillow and a cot,
these sorrows, they know me;
"we've missed you a lot!"

all the paintings are crooked,
the house is a mess,
it's a hell hole, no doubt,
but it's what I know best.

I don't write love poems anymore;
I sleep until noon and eat *** cakes for breakfast

I don't sing love songs anymore;
I cut off all my hair and dyed it a color he told me never to do

I don't read love stories anymore;
I pierced my nose and ate mushrooms underneith the stars

I don't write love notes anymore;
I read my books at diners in the middle of the night and paint just because I can

I live with tenacity and I haven't had a regret since I left


I'm glad I don't write love poems anymore

what's it like to be happy,
but still always crying?
what's it like to be alive,
but still feel like dying?

what's it like to feel normal
when your "normal" is "ill"?
what's it like to be restless
but forced to sit still?

I'll tell you what it's like,
it's hell and a half,
to be 17 and fading
from rainbow to black.

watching yourself wither,
watching your mother cry,
tell me, what's the point in waking
when it hurts to be alive?

I try to hope for the best
but you know how it goes;
you can't smell the roses
through the blood from your nose.

It feels like God is picking on me,
saying "Haha look at you!
I'm going to give you the grandest dreams
but you'll be gone by 32."

But keep your head high,
and your shoulders never low,
so can you walk with courage into the fire
when it's finally time to go.

tried and true,
this pain is not new,
I welcome it like a friend,

I seem to know,
but never show,
the cognizance of my own end.

kicking and screaming,
the sun stops gleaming,
but i know of the ocean's fare.

the lighthouse is dying,
the stratus are crying,
I am stripped down and left to bare.

bandage to wound,
with red seeping through,
I stand on broken toes.

but no one is there,
not a sound in the air,
and I remain alone with only my woes.

I know that I am not her,
I know that she is not me,
And I know that if you had more choices,
By my side you would not be.

I know that I am not pretty,
I know that I am not kind,
And I know that sometimes my mouth
Is bigger than my mind.

Someday you'll see all these things,
and run with counts collected,
But I really cannot say
That it's not what I expected,

My head and chest are aching,
My fragile frame is shaking,
I'm holding my chest and gasping for breaths
That are no longer worth the taking.

A strong ship stays sailing a'mast
Across the brutal ocean,
But when at last returned to port,
The frame is surely broken.

As if I wasn't already gone,
I'll search for what is left.
I'm taking strides out the door now,
Though they feel like tiny steps.

A paper bag will do no good
To hold the shattered parts,
I guess that's what I ought to get
For giving you my heart.

There's no proper way to feel at a time like this,
But is it proper to feel nothing at all?

Numb, empty, drifting

I guess my mind doesn't take thought to what's proper.

What a shame.

I used to wish I was in his arms.
Dream about them.
And in my days:
always think about them.
It was warmth
     and love
           and life.

Now they feel like briar patches,
And every time we touch, I bleed.
it was worth it to me until
I saw I was running out of bandages.

But still I run my fingers through his hair
And let him kiss my tears
And it's bittersweet how much you can love someone and hate them at the same time

it took 2 pills of Xanax and 6 glasses of wine to stop crying over him and it took 4 doses of NyQuil and 2 Vicodin to forget him but it only took a seeing his name on the screen of my phone to shake my body like a earthquake and rattle my soul into remission

I feel him through my bones like the way the whiskey made me feel okay again

slowly, then all at once.


I could see his hands on the ******* of another woman and his eyes wanting her like the way I cried and yelled his name alone on my bed

passionately, and undiluted


I saw his face smiling at my stories and jokes like the way the words "I love you" fell out of his mouth

forced, and heartbreakingly austere


I stopped crying over him like the way I finished the painting on my easel

I never did.

unrequited love is the most painful thing I've ever felt

It's touching a hot hand to a block of ice

It's the deficit between a snow peak of a mountain and the unforgiving sea

It's waking up at 8 am and staying in bed until dinner

It's bags under eyes and shaky hands

It's the only thing that he's ever given to me that has stayed with me this long