An old friend sleeps
somewhere you've not been.
He may be seeing
awful things
or lovely ones.  Of course,
you've no discernment,
for you dwell outside
his sphere now and outside
his dreams; for that matter,
you cannot sleep at all.

When his body gives
the sudden ****
you tiredly await--
when he falls
from the hammock
and breaks his arm,
will you reprimand him
for his fault?

Yet, could not you have told him
when he asked
for your advice
those years ago
that you doubted him
in the first place? that
his ambition frightened
you? that high-up hammocks
are beds for the foolish
more often than not?

Through the pain
of malbent joint and forced
awakening next to you
where you've watched
from the ground,
will he learn only then?
What if he reprimands
you, then, upon consciousness--
what then?  Or what if it's his spine
he damages, and Something Goes
Very Wrong, and he cannot speak,
but it is in the misery of his eyes
that you can hear him declaring,
"You could have spared me this!"
--what then?

Or what will you say
if he never comes down
at all?  And when?  How, even,
will you know that he has woken?
--that he's happy? --that he wishes
you had come with him,
hopes that you might yet?

An old friend sleeps--
or seems to sleep--
somewhere you've not been,
and as you ask yourself,
"What became of him?"
he looks to you
from his high perch
and also aches to know--
as someone below you
asks of you;
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him...

An ode to my father,
for whatever reason.
The father who seems to find
great joy in the fights.
The father who never
tells me goodnight.
To the father who loves,
to the father who hates.
To the father who stands there
guarding the gates.
To the father who's sweet,
to the father who's sour.
To the father whose glare
makes me sink down and cower.
To the years of the silence,
to the years of crushed dreams,
the years of good memories
ripped down the seams.
To the years of the love
you showed to my sisters,
while I annoy you
like a pestering blister.
To all the time crying
spent alone in my bed.
To the feelings of loneliness
you've ingrained in my head.
An ode to you, Father,
For whatever reason.

But did i?
I'm not so sure,
Though I cannot tell whether I did this to myself or
if I was placed here by genetics or
if it was outside influences or
a little of each.
All I know
is this is where
I am and I
Want to
need to
have to
must leave.
What will I do if
I can't?
How can I stay in this dark place
where I have been stuck,
forced to live in silence
and pain
and struggle
each day?
Every.
Day.
I do not know
How I became this way,
So severely ****** up.
I am cold,
because of my problems.
I am gray,
because of my problems.
I do not glow.
I am yellow.
I am red.
I am striped
like a brown zebra.
That is my fault.
It is all
my fault.
I let myself become this monster and now
I am under the bed, socializing with
the other monsters and
I cannot leave, they won't
let me leave.
I am stuck.
Stuck in the dark
under the bed
with the other monsters.
They tear me apart and
I help them.
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly,
I **** myself.
Which is worse?
killing yourself in one swift move,
or doing it ever so slowly
over a lifetime?

I cannot write a love poem
to make you come back to the door.
I cannot write a love poem
to change what is and always was.
I cannot write a love poem
to make my tears subside.
I cannot write a love poem
to make us meant to be.
I cannot write a love poem
to end all of the fights.
I cannot write a love poem
to change the way you see me.
I cannot write a love poem
to make me seem more sane.
I cannot write a love poem
to be what you want me to become.
I cannot write a love poem
to make you see my way.
I cannot write a love poem
to gain back all your love.
I cannot write a love poem
to change who i am to you.
I cannot write a love poem,
though I truly wish i could.
I cannot write a love poem,
it wouldn't do me any good.

let's go back to basics
i'll punch you in the face
i'll rip out your hair and eyes and teeth and use them as jewelry around my sleeve
oh how much i love you! every part of yourself you've given me! your brown eyes and bleached teeth - you make me look so chic!
i don't care that your veins and enamel and sticky hair styling products are ruining all my long-sleeved clothes
i'd rather wear you now and save my expensive jewelry for more formal and important events -

                                                              ­                                                                 ­      my heart's made of gold

I was sitting outside,
smoking a cigarette
with three of my favorite pals,
and I looked at each one of them,
and I told them,
"I love how,
right now,
we're happy.
And how,
when I look in each of your eyes,
I can see the smile that isn't even on your face,"
and then we smiled,
and I went back inside.

It was Sunday.
She felt guilt in walking past the church as if defying God.
She felt guilt in her anticipation when the phone rang, as if she’d been waiting all along.
She felt her guilt as she lay alone in his bed as if there, she would find her forgiveness.
Instead she found sin.
God forgive the lost.
Please be patient, she’ll find her way home someday.