I am making noise in the dark but its hard to find out why.
These voices I hear are making words,
words made out of things they've heard.
Things they may have felt or seen
with eyes made out of stars and dreams.
The words they fly and all I hear
is music and pain.
Screams and cheers...

My voice is there of course and it rings the chaos bell,
but sometimes I cannot hear my words and that just means that all is well.

Perhaps this is just a ball floating around with volume turned on high.
Does the cosmic storm give a **** about our blue and cloudy sky?

It may or may not. I'll never know.

But if all I hear until I die are these voices,

...then I am okay with that.

I'll just keep making noise in the dark.

we all grew up
differently than we intended
wild and tameless
until we got    
                      here
far from where we started off
but the familiarity still lingers
in old pictures
old faces
who haven't grown with us
those who have only lived to see
the beginning and the present
and the image of you that is expected
becomes shattered
and wiped clean
for you no longer represent those memories

hello, old friend
what was your name again?

Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.

Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.

Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.

You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.

Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)

Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.

Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.

Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.

Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.

Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.

Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.

And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.

I hope you're reading this
Because I miss you like crazy
I miss the many nights, I was privileged with
Calling you baby

I remember the night
Where you told me how you felt
And how naked, lying next to you
I was beside myself

You told me you make people feel calm
I think it's more than that
And I'm addicted to your tumblr
I hate that I know where it's at

Because you're a ******* drug to me
And withdrawal hurts so badly
I've thought about you 10,000 times today alone
And I know that I'm acting madly

I'm crazy about you
And you feel the same
So, why is this so much easier
In my brain?

In there, we're married
And everything's ok
But in real life, we're struggling
And We've both seen so much pain

There's love for you here
But it's so strong, that I can't be there
I can't hold you back
I can't keep you to myself.

I love you too much to be selfish.
I'm trying to give you the world.
He's out there.
Find him
And know, that I dearly wish he were
Me.

Rolling words, like ***** tires
asphalt slabs, wasted hours,
Nights alone, feels like home,
you were never very good to me.

Broken plastic, phony dreams
pipe tabacco, cracking seams,
slower step, promise kept,
you were always my summertime.

Sparks have faded, ashes cold
gates left open, secrets told
too late to talk, let's just walk
things are easier once I get high.

Wait for winter, wait for rain
or fall forever, ease the pain
too many ropes, it's all a joke
you broke my ******* heart though.

Pull together, shrug the want
friends don't know, friends still taunt
you will break me, you won't save me
No one knows how many times I've tried to die.

But it gets better, so they say,
when he held my hand things felt okay
people leave, hearts greave
I've never been so good with changes

Skys are bluer, my heart is sad
you're doing good, and I am glad
but it hurts to know, you're glad to go
*Like you forgot we promised forever

Salted words cut with bad intentions,
snorted off the childhood coffee table,
that held more shot glasses,
than black brimming mugs.

****** you up a little,
to peer small eyes over the counter,
daddy passed out
on the kitchen floor.

cigarette stained shirts,
and ***** filled mason jars
tucked beneath lace and cotton
so mommy won't worry,
the habit is in your blood.

Didn't even know that daddy liked
two lines of blow
with his coffee every morning,
****** you up a little, huh?

I'm not one to dwell,
but wait,
yes I am.

Six years since I last saw
your ugly, drunken face
that everyone said
looked so much like mine
'the spittin image'

Shattered glass on tile floors,
from shaky hands after too much Kessler,
Pained stomach,
Heaving into plastic or metal or porcelain
to spill the burdens
of a troubled childhood.
Might ******* up a little

Virginities, well
we could have waited longer
guess we were just bored

2. Loving you softly,
Two years seems awful short now
Gave it all away

3. Wine coolers and shots
drunk kisses and some *******
needy rebounding

4. Told each other secrets,
friendship turned to more, quickly,
then back to sadness

It hurts to touch betrayal,
to know how cold she appears
to eyes too lonely even to see.
It burns to hold her, embrace her,
to smell the naked emptiness on her skin.

Can you ever understand
the raging, nameless abomination
that fills the bones upon betrayal,
rides the flipping of the heart
and the slow melting of the soul
like a carnival ride so perverse?

She is omnipotent in the mind,
holding thoughts as a python does its food.
She slips her invisible fingers over arms,
makes them tingle with the empty sensations.
I despise her, constant companion
to the lonely man
that I must always be.

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.