I'm trying to meet new people and everything in between.
I like to get drunk on patios, porches, tailgates, and float trips, and any outdoor scenario.
I have a definite weakness for all things sweet.
Pipeline rig welder in the making.
Ask me, voted most likely to succeed in highschool.
I watch too much netflix and enjoy crying over Frank Ocean.
I am going to sue the **** out of you.
I'm a guy that sometimes carries a pocket thesaurus.
Socially conscious dude who probably drinks too much.
Amateur chef. Banjo Jedi.
New to this Midwest life.

2 fitted sheets, stretched and tucked atop each
other. A nesting home for soft bugs with thousands
of legs, in which you cannot see.
Why does it smell like Michigan basement
bathrooms, and size 4 feet in turtle sandboxes.

Painted, chipped, salvageable wood only shows
it's gritty teeth in the day light.
leaking through shower curtain rings on
the makeshift curtains like pool water
through the cracks in your smiling eyes,
blue goggles, the ones that cover the nose.

the longer you listen to the silence,
the louder it gets.
or is that the sounds of fan blades
ripping through the indescribable texture of
the stale air you swim through each night.

You'd swear you experienced a sonic boom here,
the bull whip cracking from over pressure. or is it
under pressure? I always thought that pressure
weighed like pounds and tons. I still don't
know if that is wrong.

I won't remember the sound of your laugh,
or the way you smell, or the clothes you wore
when we met. Like a good poet should.
But I'll remember all the things we forgot
to do together. All the times we spoke but
got too high to listen.

High, like the time I told you I thought
the trees and the sun were making
strobe lights for our long drive into
October. Flashing light in the car windows,
as we drove down the open freeway.

It's easy to remember the world
was made for us, when we are
alone, here, in this room, together,
like we were before, and will be soon
once again.

There were actually three sheets. I put two on top of the third because the bugs are real and were on the original unstated third sheet. Sometimes things smell like my grandma, but the scent has no name. My mom is over protective of her 107 year old wood floors. We've talked a lot about silence, but how often do we listen to what it is trying to say? I don't understand the physics of sound,  but there is nothing you can't understand without google. This poem isn't about you and we weren't wrong about the strobe lights or the fact that we had never been so ******. I wish you were here again.

The same effects that bring
You to me, in the words we say,
The way we say it, and how
It hovers, still and structured
Through the atmosphere.

Words, effortlessly placed,
Cold tweezers and shaking
Fingertips, as if God himself
Placed each cloud simply to cover
The blemishes sought for on
Sunny days in the sky.

This force, lifts me. To you.
Aeroplane, cabin norms, box dinners
Above the blanketing words.
You tell me hello.
My body regains its grounds
As we reach our highest altitudes.

I've left a part of my heart in Denver, Colorado.
Four twenty somethings jumping into the the freezing
lake head first from the mountain tops just to see
what it's about. We counted flannels and puffy vests
and tried to calculate the net worth of this place.
Rooster cat opened a up a blank wall to me where
I blew out my brains and left my phone number.
Remember, your neighbor might be lonely.
Lavender lime muffins and clouds intricately laced in
patterns meant to hold the sun hostage for but an hour more
as it gently strokes the broad shoulders of the 14ers backside.
Without them, how do you know which way is west?

I've always thought it a bit cruel that
my mother named me Trista Joy.
Doomed to a fate of being pulled,
polarizing at two ends of the spectrum of emotion.
Smacked into the middle of a war
that has been waged for thousands of years.
Millions of lives lost to both happiness and sadness.

A walking contradiction can only move about in one way.
Circling what I thought I knew, and what really is.
Am I meant to be extreme in expression,
ferociously flippant from side to side?
Was I born without the ability to reach the medium?

A children's movie once taught me that
happiness cannot exist without sadness,
and in that I often find solace.
But I live in a world where people run, fight, and hide
from half of what I am, and obsessively strive for the other.
It gets exhausting, suppressing  the spring loaded spirit that is being sad.
Happiness can only hold its ground for so long.

It's great to meet you, I'm Sad Joy Sullivan.

Debauchery was in the air for all of us last night.
Neo hip hop stoner jive.

I once watched my friend break down into tears after
hearing a Phil Collins song while shopping for dinner
in a Louisville gas station.

Angela will get up and leave the room if The Reason by Hoobastank
comes on the radio and you still listen to Closing Time when you get ready for bed.
Weird phrases are hovering through the air.

I turned on the bathroom fan to avoid sitting in silence with myself and you ripped up all my potted plants and sold my favorite arm chair on craiglist.
I wake up sobbing.

You were chewing on a red pen, but i thought it was a twizzler. I worked up the courage to ask you for one.

The chainsaw love song of the jumping spider
makes the snare drums in your ears roll.
Its gold in the right light.
Even better in the under light.

I told you i think its weird that everyone buys shoes
and maybe some people feel about their shoes
the way i feel about my shoes,
Which is a good feeling.

I am writing this poem while other people
read poems that the have written also.

I am too anxious to ask people when podcasts become a thing
and what does it mean to be a podcast?

A friend once said it would be cool if your poetry professor
told you to ******* but its also cool when they get you a
glass of water at the poetry reading where you are writing poems.

I think the girl in front of me is writing a poem too.
I wonder if she writes about spiders.
I wonder if she is giving her mom a poem for her birthday.
I wonder if she drafts poems about how you make her feel but
deletes them before they burn into her laptop screen.

I wonder how you feel when you make me feel good and happy.
I hope that you feel like the way i feel when you make me feel good and happy.
I am glad we are friends. I want you to play piano with me on sunday evenings
so we can prelude into the perpetual strain of sunday to saturday.
It may, if we play loud enough, dampen the bodies of the
****** and doomed that we inhibit on weekdays.

I wish I could write poems that inspire your poems.