I had a dream recently,
where you were *******
me,
and it was so ******* hilarious,
because you were awful.


before waves, I used to imagine you
being the one to anchor me until the chains
ripped my skin to bone.

before sun rays, I used to think you
were the only one who could make my flesh
burn and peel and never ever heal.

before alcohol, I used to get foolishly drunk
on you. and you. and you.

i was a hunk of fish being hacked away by a
unsharpened butcher knife.
the hunks and guts splattered all over the apron.

you used to say i was beautiful,
and i guess i can’t believe it anymore because
you ripped my spine out only to place the bones
wrong and walking has never felt the same.

this dream never made sense, like the rest of them,
i swim through them with too much salt in my lungs
and the ocean keeps trying to drown. Drown. Drown. Me.

see you again, in a dream, in a wave, in a lie.
the thing is, i sort of want you inside,
but i only know you’ll crash.break.rip.stomp.
and my skin is already mangled

No creation of merit can be created
without first digesting
the written-down genius
of those whose shoulders pad our feet.

The writer is a carnivorous beast
with an eye for talent
It would be a fool’s errand
to venture into a vacuum

in an attempt to find anything
of artistic merit.
The greatest accomplishments recorded
by a collective arthritic hand are merely flawed reflections
of the natural beauty in others’ magnificent work.

A writer puts into words
the common thoughts
of the people who won’t
elaborate upon their own condition.

So it lies with the beleaguered scribe
to illustrate in tomes both engaging
and mundane what the rest of the world
would gladly walk over.

There are no thanks for reminding
the world of it’s shortcomings,
but there is also no rebuke for shining light upon
the sullied truths for which no one wishes
to lay a claim. And therein lies
the writer’s world-

cared for by few and searched for
by those who have already recognized
the societal malaise dripping
all over the front pages of tomorrow’s papers.

I want to open my eyes to see your beautiful face
As the early morning sun pokes through the window panes.
Feel your embrace tighten as you realize I'm awake,
Be woken up by sweet pecks of your lips,
And say good morning with simply a glance.
I want to look around our near empty apartment
Furnished with cheap, used couches,
And photographs of high school.
I want my body to be free
And comfortable,
****;
As it usually is with you.
I want time spent together to be worry free,
And if a care seems to slip through my trap,
I'd kiss it all away.
Days and nights would seem endless with you;
And despite the moon and sun being polar opposites they would
Greet us with a smile.
At 2am the moon would watch over us as you
Sit behind me, rub my back, and
Help me with my latest poem
Because we both know how brilliant your mind is.
You've always taught me about learning
And overcoming your fears
And being prepared.
But without realizing it, you're teaching me a new concept;
Patience;
A virtue I can learn to keep,
Because if patience is what I need to achieve these results,
I'll wait forever and a day for this.

You can't find something that isn't lost,
It must be hidden so it can be sought.

Revelation's a *****,
Hindsight's just an aftertaste.

Get a grip,
Unzip.

Flip

Reload,
Insert clip.

Let your freak flag fly,
Let me break the sky.

As the light of the world drains through,
The buzz in my head says "renew".

we never finished writing our duet.
i don't mean that figuratively.
we were writing a duet
and we never finished it.

we had our two separate melodies strung
the lyrics were quaint but true

but we could never seem to piece them together.

you couldn't quite harmonize pleasantly
our voices didn't blend nicely

maybe i could have taken it as a sign.

we just didn't take enough time
didn't have enough patience

i've always been more of a soloist myself.

we never finished writing our duet.
it doesn't get more poetic than that.

you'd think
after
decades
of marathoning lies
he might inadvertently stumble upon the truth
and yet
still

sometimes i believe that i hate you.

usually, i don't.
because i don't.

i wish i despised you.
i wish i could honestly say i haven't thought of you
that the whisper of your memory didn't pervade my mind
and drown out that propaganda

i wish there was more about you that bothered me
i wish i didn't remember your gentle touch,
those comfortable silences,
how we'd giggle not because anything was funny but because we were giddy and our smiles bubbled over.

i wish he was more like you.
i wish i'd met you later.
i wish our paths weren't so separate.
i wish
i wish
i wish.

welcome me into the innermost workings of your mind
share with me those ghosts you protect
as if i too knew them,
for i think i might.

pour it on me.
go on.
let your mysteries submerge us both.

**i want to get closer.