there's ecstasy in empathy
or was it the other way around?
i forgot on the day
i needed it most.

Like, unlike.
We collide:
head on.
Shooting back instantly,
we ricochet:
never returning.

You were the kind of weird
That said hello to strangers
Who did not want to be said hello to
And the kind of weird that
Sat in your mouth for a week
Under your tongue while you stewed the decision
Do I introduce you to my normal friends?
And the kind of weird which
Sat on the couch and stopped talking to me
On our first night together
Just to stare out of my window
In a melodrama fashion that I am guilty of hating
But guilty of once enjoying on you.
The kind of weird which
Intrigued me enough to let you in to
My bed—as well as other things—
After your eyes returned from the window on
That first night together.
You were, however, the kind of normal which
Took me in and never talked to me again. Not kind at all, but normal, very normal.

Was it selfish of me? You
have no commitment to
the world but still we
frown upon you as you
marry the only thing that
gives you happiness. Was
is selfish of me? For the
love of God, at least use
a sanitary needle.

There's a world that sits
in the tip
of
your cigarette.


There's a city in
that spark.

Can you sense me in your stomach?
I am that little colored pill.
Are you aware of my presence as your blood-alcohol level?
I am rising with every sip you take.
The cigarette which seeps into your lungs and infects your system like a snake:
That is me.
No matter what you do to your stomach, lungs or iris.
You cannot escape.
I am a violet-tinged virus.

You came as a friend,
Twisted into a lover,
and left a stranger.

Like passing seasons in a year.

Bleach your soul.
Why aren't I alive?
Falling through the core.
     I thrive.
Need more.

Enter new,
Exit pure.
Leaving with the golden view,
I do.

Leave at night.
Catch green fix.
Never wrong.
Never right.

Bleach your soul.
Why aren't I alive?
Falling through the core.
     I thrive.
Need more.
I do.

Deals with gates and
Fallen angels.
Let me in
and
Let me in
and
Leave at night.

Bleach my soul.
Why am I alive?
Falling through my core.
     I thrive.
Need more.
I do.
I do.
I do.

she looks like me, but she does not
hate like me. she loves,
and she loves you, but you
have always wanted to be hated. and i
can hate you.

and i can hate you.

Language is a tricky thing,
It changes as we do.
What now is slang could possibly be,
A speech so far from new.

Wording, 'tis a fickle being,
Doth grow along with humans fond.
What now is jargon could turn to be,
The poetic script of times beyond.

I locked you in my closet,
And put your memories under my bed.

But now,
the flesh has fallen
and you are the skeleton in my closet
and beneath my bedframe,
your memories have spawned
a monster.

Little slow suicide boy
Has lips tainted frozen blue
From threefold the norm amount
Of ecstasy's strong hue.

Little slow suicide boy
Has lungs of ravaged tar
*** combined with cigarettes--
Mind gaining ground on a star.

Little slow suicide boy
Finds sunshine in the rain
Happiness in depression
Places the needle to his vein

Little slow suicide boy
Scorns the girl with a slashed wrist
Scorns the boy who is dying to exist
But one fall into a lifeless choke.

Takes another drag, blows out smoke.

i will be alone now
walking naked from the bush
drunk stumble down quadra st

the *** may have been brief
but the memory of ******* will stay forever
in my wet dreams

I dig the guilt out of my rib cage with my fingers and
embrace it.

Sad night for reminiscing
Charlotte counties, kissing missing.
Cinematic. Systematic. Relationship: static.

Charismatic with the diplomatic.
Rib cage chapel &
A phone call.
Traumatic.
A needle.
Ecstatic.
An addict.

Sanity, stability, sobriety.
Everything you've never
given to me.

Musei Vaticani may be meaningful, however
I would rather pace the hallways of
the thin spaces that part the seas of your fingers.

Maybe Michaelangelo was wrong
The creation of man isn't meant for Sistine ceilings but the head of our beds.

Fighting was beautiful while it lasted.
Appreciation stems from things contrasted.

tHERE aRE pLENTY oF fISH iN tHE sEA


i swung a bat and hit the ball—

and the ball kept talking to me until he found someone a little cuter at work. or that's what i assume.

you keep saying, "at least you played the game,"

but i would rather have missed the ******* match.
crane my neck like a swan. hang my head. give up good, give up so good. canadian geese.

it happened again. it ******* happened again.

Cycles always tend to repeat themselves in circles but
I find myself standing in the corners of them.

i myself
an amalgamate
of little words
long pauses
you are without brackets
we multiply, divide
but never add

The only difference between you and I is the lettering.

Cold blooded creatures need warmth to live
Shiver without a light to feed.
*Is that why you call me
your sun?

You can use blue words
to describe a grey canvas
but that does not make
it colorful.

Loneliness or luckiness,
Mean or meaning:

I don't know anymore.

here we are again
midnight.

as we count the new day away/
one, two, three
in the morning.


four, five, ***
seven days in a week.

playing on our words.
we're weak.
i'm weak.
so weak.

here we are again.

I tried to write of you.


I really tried to write of you.






\i don;t know Why i't didtn work---


I tried so hard, I tried
so hard, but it
was just a sign--
just a sign-just
a
sign.

companionship, not compatibility.
i have chosen immobility.
once i lived in instability but now i live
in his advice.

so water melts to ice,
my science trusts the imprecise,
thus in this world,
such comfort will suffice.

thus in this world,
that i created,
my latest, unadulterated:
i will live in shallow vice
i will allow
such comfort to suffice.

what was i to do
we had some human-sized bumps
and she smelled like campfire

That's why the sun
makes you cry
When you stare him
in the eye.

Overload—
Love: authentic.
Benefits: carcinogenic.

don't you ******* touch my skin
with your tainted fingertips
i'm a painter but even i
won't touch my lips
to hands that once held her
hips during *** and sin

don't you ******* touch my skin

Your skin is soft and mine is rough
to the touch—but somehow
you still let me taste you
with these rosebud fingertips
which have kissed pinkies
pricked thumbs.

Your found your wings
passing the forty-third floor
but (like a baby bird)
you couldn't figure out how to use them yet—


and you used them, then
on your way to
the heaven that you had never
believed in.

Read, and regurgitate—review and reiterate—perceive and perpetuate—
Agitate the invertebrate—
Spineless, mindless,
     your body is a mess.
Your finest has blindness but he still could pass a test—only of literacy, of liberty,
     of mystery and misery.
We don't possess the ability in the end
     to comprehend.

Breathe out. Breathe in.
Ideas high-strung,
out of your grasp,
in crossbars above.
Find a topic—
Angst, grief, fantasy, love.
Reach. Stretch.
Contort your body into long and thin.
Breathe out. Breathe in.

Live to standards man has set.
Emotions. Thoughts. Blood. Sweat.
Fealings on paper, sealed in ink.
But no words to connect and link.

Dig deep into the corners of your mind.
Find the place where it's just instinct.
No hearing.
No sight.
Become deaf.
Become blind.
No mental thought.

And write. Just write, about the expression you sought.

Hurry up, dearest poet.
The deadline? Tonight.
Pick up your poetry and write. Just write.

I kissed a woman to forget a girl—
with pearl earrings and diamond snakebites,
black tights and blank skin.
I kissed a ***** to forget a ******.
I kissed a ***** to forget a ******.

The modern battle
     Of science and art,
Takes up space,
     Within my heart.

The beauty of rebel symmetry,
And lines in every direction,
Commands equal attention from me,
As the brain's constant connection.

But, suppose, they ever did combine...
Possessing traits from the art and science mind,
To successfully dominate
                                both their kind.

I though I'd miss
the recollection of memory—
but now I find
that it slips through my fingers
like sand sitting under the
setting sun.
for years, you will stay
buried under these grains.

Wordless,
She says
she loves me.

Worldless,
she does
not
breathe.

i still look at the recipes you wrote about me.
you told me that baking requires trust—
maybe that's why my macarons burnt.

you were the most sobering experience.

I sip my drink in waterfalls
looking to fill a hole
whose origin I haven't quite
yet figured out.
I make the same mistake
because maybe I can fill this void
with all the luck of the 3rd time
with all the regrets of the coming 4th.

There are skeletons in my closet
And monsters under my bed.
My ears are ringing,
with threats, unsaid.

Voices whisper,
but never caress
my body, no.
My mind they adress.

A thought that always
grinds with frustration.
Is this all real?
     or imagination?

There are skeletons in my closet
And monsters under my bed
But none of them compare
to this demon in my head.

she had eyes like diamond


i kissed her lips
and she sighed

it echoed in
the coalmine