poetry is so ******* gay
write about stupid **** no one cares about
i must be a ****** because i always write passages
**** those butterflies
cut off its wings
earings
earwings
emotions just a waste of chemical signals
neutralize my brain chemistry for joy atm

I sit here....
I      sit      here...
I                 sit               here...
Procrastinating
p
   r
     o
       c
         r
           a
             s
               t
                 i
                   n
                     a
                       t
                         i
                           n
                              g
until one day, I................................................................­.......................die
having done absolutely  N.   O.    T.    H.    I.    N.   G.
and I regret <dfihbadflhbfihrefbiuwfiuhfihifiufiwief> everything.






Wasting
Every
Minute

I could be alone
I could be sad
I could cry myself to sleep
But I don't
I walk through cemeteries
And have panic attacks
And fall in love
Far too often
I guess that's just a side effect
Of deciding to live

I don’t know you’re name
But I’ve written you poems
Not really for you
But definitely about you

This isn't a poem
Or a love letter
Maybe a tiny
Apology
But mostly just a note
To the one I adore
Dearest
I'll see you
On the other side
Call me tonight
I'm going to the beach
And I'm going to dig a hole
All the way
To Colorado
To visit you
With sand in my shoes

where do mattresses go when they leave your home?
do they hitch a ride back to Oregon
that place that you only pitched as an idea for a funny road trip
but never actualized
instead the map with all the pins of the places you've visited
has become the places you'll go and now it's slanting askew  
because your sense of perception is always a little crooked
do they sit by the curb of a dilapidated 7-11 and watch everyone
give them bedroom eyes
is there such a thing as pining or are we naturally drawn to the new?
something foreign that can be learned with time and patience
but the patience runs out like the water in the bag where that fish you won at the fair came in
and when you got home there was only plastic and the rubbery upside down belly of fish scales in an airless vacuum

do they enter through the window and shimmy under the
other dusty things in the attic?
Do they make themselves at home telling you stories of
everything they've seen and don't you wish that
the guests always stayed longer than you could hope for
but forever is not in your cards, it's not even in the receipts
you horde in the kitchen drawer
forever is stuck under the couch but you never check
because it's easier to just sit and think about it

you are a preposition.

you are in my heart.

you are on my mind.

you are at my doorstep knocking.