No drink you ever drink
No cigarette you ever smoke
Is going to fill the void you feel
It never works
More, and more, and more
It is never enough
It does not work.
So, why, do you keep trying?
Again, and again, and again...
Instead you wake with guilt
     and the void is bigger the next day
     so you keep trying to plug that hole
     but you are just making it bigger...
The hole cannot be plugged
It must be built up, from the bottom
Find your worth, it is down there
Find your self-empathy, it is there too
Find your confidence, it is not lost
Find yourself, it was once discarded
      with your bottles, down that hole.  

                                                            - IJ

In my thirties
Yet I still spend life drinking
      Instead of living
I wonder, if I quit
     And am still empty
     Is that the end of the road?
I dare not try.

                                                - IJ

that moment when you realize
too many of your poems
share the same title
because you are
unoriginal
af

It's still not ok
But then again, when has it ever been

Keep on screaming "its ****** up"
Take back your words, but you'll never take back enough
I've got a feeling over time
You'll stumble over what you didn't want to find

Keep throwing bricks against the stone
Chipping away, until you wear it down to bone
And you've broken everything away
I'm leaving you to rubble, burying your turn of phrase

And keep on screaming "its ****** up"
Save the world, but It will never be safe enough
And all your pity is in vein
Tripping over syllables, you never planned to say

It's not ok
But when has it ever been

It's still not ok
But I'm guessing that's the way it will stay

So keep on pouring out your guts
Slick as the ropes that I never thought I'd cut
And break yourself against the stone
Amid the bricks, you'll quickly find yourself alone

Not sure what to say
Not looking so happy now
Never a bad day
Still not ok
It's still not ok

Imagine a world in which
you lived in a little house
in the middle of the woods --
an itty bitty cabin with creature
comforts and small necessities,
and paper and ink and tables and chairs --
in it
you slept and wept and dreamt,
and would walk and walk
never finding anywhere else...
always returning to your teeny front door.

The cabin sits in silence,
in semi-darkness most of the day --
the path of the sun moves
l a n g u i d l y
through the sky
and the neighboring trees
cast puddles of shade.

You wish for
companionship,
though you
aren't sure
what that means.

Sometimes,
along your garden fence
you find little bits of paper
or tissues
or wind-swept bottles
butting up against the slats.

The papers have names
and bits of stories:
of shootings and stabbings and
conniving schemers,
of donations and creations
and family boat-races;
and you wonder who these people are,
or if the pages are ripped
from some book you don't own --
and if the wind blows in
toward your tiny little home...
mustn't there be a way
to get out?

"...and then we get up at the **** crack of dawn, eat cereal for breakfast, take a cool shower to put some pep in our steps, then get in the car and drive around listening to our favorite music until the coffee shop opens."

pause

"And when we've finished our morning coffee and people-watching we walk around town looking at all the crap we want to get when we've saved up enough money for it and then get a slice of pizza or something. You know what happens next? We take our favorite books or whatever and go chill in a hammock that we set up in a corner of the college campus. You want me to bring my guitar so you can listen to the silly ditties I come up with on the spot? Sure. You want to go to a movie? Just say the word."

pause

"I don't really care what we do, as long as we're content. I'm just throwing out ideas."

pause

"I just want to give."

puts down mic and walks off stage

nothing is ethereal
there is no peace
tangible world
holding tight
to the bricks
of my life

and it's all terribly
terribly
real