Most everything we did, we did too many times to count.
The kisses hello and kisses goodnight,
all-consuming hugs and kicks under the table.
The side glances you'd give me,
with that half smile
in response to a joke that was not good
and was probably mine.

I told you I loved you too many times to count.
All the nights out and all the nights in
under covers with a movie we would give up on
because I was asleep in your arms,
on your shoulder,
too many times to count.

You pressed your nose against mine too many times to count
so close that I'd look with only one eye at a time
and try to memorize your face
smiling in response to that very special smile you saved
for only when we were nose to nose
then wait not so patiently for you to kiss me.

I wish I had a tally
of all these nice things and nice words
to wrap up into nice memories
I could keep and count for years to come.
But I regret much more not counting the other things
of the not so nice nature
important things
that needed to be counted
and were not.

Like all those times you made me cry
for equally uncountable reasons,
reasons I can't remember clearly
but at the time sent a chill through my heart
ran through my nerves
got caught in a cold breath
so that I felt the absence of your love
the emptiness of where you told me it was.
I felt that hole too many times to count.

You left me for more interesting things too many times to count
so that I felt so alone
even though I was with you
disappointed that you had disappointed once again.
You, being you,
and me, being me,
being not each other and not close either
then crying again
realizing we would never be.

We went to bed angry too many times to count
and woke up forgetful every time after
because our problems could not be fixed
and we knew it would do us no good to look at them.

I thought about breaking up too many times to count
and clearly you did too,
because I can count the number of times we did, once.
Still, you broke my heart too many times to count
before, during, after our relationship,
picking up the pieces, the uncountable number of pieces,
and piecing myself back together
on just another occasion I would not bother counting.

I loved you in spite of everything too many times to count
Let my heart burn with quiet hope
hoping everything would be okay
even though it was never okay
and my heart was already cooked black
yet still, I could probably start counting now.

If only I had counted
then I would know how much I don't need you
then I would have some grand sum as proof
then I wouldn't have to count now

count the tears I still cry
count the nights I can't sleep
count the drinks I don't count to drink more

My heart falls silent after a fit of anguish and pain and desperation
watching the gears in my brain snap with the
incompatibility of reality and my now silent heart
Fallen flat. too tired to get back up

Take a deep breath inventory
Of yourself
Do not count your hands or feet
Not your wandering legs or
Wavering arms
Do not take inventory of your clothes
Not of your favorite shoes or
Your special hat—not even your
Coat that you save for those cold,
Cold nights
Ignore your car—payments or paid off
Your home—apartment, trailer, mansion
Your work uniform—whatever that may be

Make emergency stops only
You are still several miles from
The intersection of contentment and identity
And you have not been there
In far too long
Do not take inventory of how you look
In a summer dress or a tuxedo and bowtie
Don’t count your history with
Drugs and alcohol
Don’t count your computer, your television
Or that collection of movies
Or albums
Or books that you’ve been working on
Don’t take account of your ability to curl
Dead weight
It’s just curling dead weight
Don’t count the number of visible abs
You have
Or your BMI

You are so much more than a body
You are so much more than possessions
Your body and belongings have not
Done you well to feel like you belong

Instead take inventory of your joy
You have some joy don’t you?

Count your friends
Count your love letters
Count the moments when it rains
And you have an umbrella
Count the last time you had strawberries
Count the start of every kiss
Count the paid off credit cards
Actually, count those twice
Because freedom counts for twice as much
Account for all of your freedoms
Take inventory of playing catch with your dad
Your last home-cooked meal
Account for the last time you rode a bike
When you didn’t think about exercise, you just felt the wind
Count the times you wrapped birthday presents
Count the smell of the last bouquet of flowers you were given
Count the last time you went to the zoo
And you swore, nobody ever fell in love with the
Animals quite like you did
Cause you have an eye for beauty
And you’re seeing it everywhere
Take a deep breath inventory of the beauty you have seen

And when you can’t seem to find anything that matters
To take inventory of
Count those dark moments where you still
Have the hope to rack your brain
To try to find a memory where you had joy
If you still have hope to try to find it
That is joyful
All on its own
Because I know they can be hard to find sometimes
Those things worth taking inventory of
But I have found the greatest of these things is love
Not the way I love Pulp Fiction and Casablanca
But the way I love my wife
And my father and my mother
And a good rescue
Cause that is what I’ve had—a good rescue
And life is sweet like honey
Not because it’s easy
And certainly not because I feel good all the time
But because I have found joy in a rescued life that I can hope in
When I take a deep breath inventory
I have to realize all I have is love
The rest will go away someday
But not my hope and joy and love

count cuts
  count pills
   count tears
      count blades
        count frowns
         count calories
            count memories
               count blood drops

          count your blessings
         count memories        
        count recovery
       count smiles
      count meals
     count days
    count yes'
   count us

The Count…by Jessie 1/06

Count the ones that said they cared
Count the times they lied
Count upon, you can not count
This truth you cannot hide
Count how many times they left
Divide it by returns
Ad it to the times it took, just for you to learn
Count up all the good days,
You had within the year
Subtract it from the bad days
A negative appears
Count up all the sorrys,
Each one has had to say
The meaningful a fraction;
Little price to pay
Count the quantum leaps you took,
With your heart in hand
Count the times right after,
Empty where you stand
Count the times you lay your head,
On the pillow just to dream
Count the times you’ve woken up,
Hearing yourself scream
Now stop and sharpen up the lead
One more problem to be solved
At what point do you stop the count
And let yourself resolve?

I can count on my left hand
how many boys have had a taste of my lips
I can count on them like I can my pinky in a bar fight
Clipped nails like flightless birds
Nothing to scratch my initials into their flesh
Because most nights
I didn’t belong there

I can count on my right hand
The number of boys that I’ve slept with
Some naked and others fully clothed with the lights on
I used to be afraid of the dark
Until I had too many secrets to hide in the shadows
Sometimes I’d beg them not to look at me
Because my scars were always illuminating stories
I didn’t want to tell
Sometimes I’d beg them to leave me
Because my stories were too long
To begin to tell
Sometimes
I didn’t want to be there
At all

I can count with my eyes closed
The number of times I’ve cried in front of someone
Because of a boy
My eyes have to be closed
Or I won’t let myself remember it
Sometimes I don’t
And I tell myself I have never cried
For such a silly reason
As a boy

I can count on my hips
The number of times I’ve felt like nothing
While lying in a place I didn’t want to be
And counting the sounds a darkened room
Until the sun washed my eyes open
And told me it was better to forget
So I forgot
But every time I lie awake
I remember you like taste of your palm
Against my mouth
And I really
Really
don’t want to

I can count the seconds
Before I fall asleep
Strategically within the first few thousands
So as not to keep listening to the sounds my room makes
Incase our windows creak at the same time of night
I might burst out of the blankets
And run until the sidewalk catches up to me
Or I might lie there
And pretend not to hear it

I can count with my heartbeats
The number of times
I pretended not to hear myself

I can count on my eyelashes
The seconds I spent with my eyes closed

I can count on my body
The number of panic attacks I’ve had

I can count on
Myself
To never speak to you again

It was the beginning of the summer
And life was darker than the underside of frightened eyelids
I told you I needed someone to depend on
You told me to count on you

and I’m sorry that I ever did.

the count starts now (tired of tired)


I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook

you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...

rise this day,  start another way...

count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one

use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed

count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.

more? more.  

mirror.  find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.

add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.

you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.

wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.

go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted

walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.

and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity

Don’t count me out
I feed on that doubt
Don’t count me out
You haven’t seen that bout
Don’t count me out
You haven’t seen my new move
Don’t count me out
Let me show what I can do
Don’t count me out
No I’m not through
Let me show you what I’ve been through
All I can do
You can’t count me out
I’m more than you know
Sure it took a while for things to take off but now we’re soaring
I wouldn’t count you out
No matter what I found out
**** the rumors and the doubt
One through a hundred
I’m betting it all on you
The one and only
Don’t count me out
I might have to move different
For us to reach something different
Don’t count me out
Don’t act indifferent
Fact is things are different
We may be down but not out
You can’t count us out
Beaten and broken
With allot of unspoken words
Thinking about it’s got me choked up
Life seems so broken up
We’ve still got fight so don’t count us out
No matter how big or small
We can surpass it all
So Don’t count me out
I feed on that doubt
Setting the stage as I ascend
Climbing to new plateaus
Everything set against me
Can’t stress the history
Success gained under mystery

It takes both hands to count the number of times I’ve been ***** but doesn’t count because I didn’t say ‘no.’
Both hands to recall the men who I felt obligated to sleep with because I had turned them on it’d be ‘mean’ to leave them that way.
On both hands, I can remember the number of times the smell of alcohol on his breath made me want to ***** as he kissed my neck before thinking that I wanted it.
Both hands to count the number of times I wasn’t strong enough to push him off of me before he pushed inside of me.
Both hands to count the number of times he told me to ‘calm down, it was alright.’
I used both hands too many times to run my nails down his back, making him think I was enjoying myself; hoping to end it end sooner.
On both hands, I can count the number of ******* I faked on a different man’s mattress in a different position than the man before.
On both hands, I can count the number of times I said I liked it from behind the most so I wouldn’t have to see his face.
On both hands, I can count the number of men I thought might sleep with me and actually like me instead of using me as just another way to get laid.
Both hands I can count the number of times he finished and I got dressed in the dark so that I could leave and never hear from him again.
On both hands, I can count the number of times I’ve cried myself to sleep, feeling ashamed of the number of men I’d wished I’d said ‘no’ to.
Both hands I can count the number of nights I’ve stayed up only to cut another slash through my wrist and let his memory seep through the wound.  
On both hands, I count the number of times I didn’t want to have ***, but felt guilty and pressured into doing what he wanted.
Both hands I can count the number of times I’ve been *****, but didn’t say no, didn’t struggle, only cried in silence after it was over.