I don't even own
a wall clock
yet I keep hearing a persistent
tick-tock tick-tock tonight.
Maybe it's because it's one thirty
in the morning and I should be asleep
but instead I'm writing poetry
to relax and take my mind off of things
with the added benefit of validation from strangers
who think that my words are pleasant to read
even though my poetry feels like a big run-on sentence
to me and all of these poems are a part
of a larger, more coherent
narrative but all I can do
is amputate and crop
here and there
and break the hands off of the wall
clock that I don't own
in the hopes that for
an unmeasured moment,
my mind will be clear from all
the white noise
that tick tick ticks
away,
hurtling at
one second per second
into infinity.

Do not be afraid to write
poetry,
do not be afraid to let parts
of your soul take form
in word and verse
and do not be afraid to crush the mountains
of doubt from the ones you love
and show them that what you have
to say is worthwhile and permanent
and show them that you are not afraid
of your scars and your thoughts
and your mistakes
and do not be afraid of the pain
of reopening old wounds
and letting the gush splash across
the page in witty diatribes
that make you feel a little better
about the fact that you let a relationship
nearly **** you
and do not be afraid to line up all the painful
memories and conversations you'll never be able to have
and one by one
write them into poetry
and get them out of your soul
where they've been rotting
and turning you inside out.

I was having a rough life
and somehow found God
and was progressing
through the valley of the shadow of death
until I was told to shut the **** up
by somebody on Twitter.

I watched a video
where a pastor was
talking about why they
were building a second sanctuary
in the mega-complex-compound
that was his church and he said
"We've thought carefully and prayerfully
about this..."
and I tuned out because I got
caught up in the time I couldn't
come home because someone had a
dream that they had to ****** me
and how
"That was God's way of telling
me that I can't let you come home"
which made me feel really
special that God was sending dreams
about me to people
and so I asked Him real prayerfully
while He was at it
to send a Magic Mike-esque dream
about me
to this girl I had a crush on
and in the dream
I would have the body of Hulk Hogan
in his pre reality show years.

She and I never ended up together.

hands that sizzle against skin
fingernail markings
and angry pink marks on my neck

a thumb pushed harshly against my lips
but only slightly

fingers, not tracing ,but hungry
following familiar paths on strange
bodies and the urge to just shut me up

or argue on a different plane

the look of victory on both sides
neither willing to compromise but
aware that the sheets are the white flags
not so much swaying but rather tangled
and pushed aside for peace talks

lingering looks over half filled glasses
whispering when you don't need to but
just to know how it feels to have your face
on their neck and letting them know
you're thinking of it

pulling back at the last second,
let the moment before the kiss last
as long as it can possibly go on for

watch your arm break out in anticipation,
******* hard against soft fabric and
wondering if you're also thinking of
my clever mouth against your skin or
your face between my legs

staring at you fingers, i wonder if they'd
slip in smoothly on the first attempt and
i watch you fidget with your belt

and wonder if you're thinking you'd like
me to be there to carefully and attentively
undo it while i tell your foreign policy
seems to be lacking

your drunk, nibbling on something sweet
and your hands move in circles
i wonder what you're thinking of
as i nibble on a pencil

seven hours and i wonder if
conversation would last that long
were we sitting in the same room

we talk culture clashes and imperialism
you say i'm a perfectionist and
i say you don't think things through

and the morality of *** lingers on our tongues