The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

I assembled this ship
Bits by bits
Only to watch it get wrecked
By you

And then it hurt so bad that, after that moment, it never hurt at all

I let you in
Inch by inch
only to have you
leave me abandoned again

And maybe it was my fault to chase the light that burnt for someone else and to hope it would stay

I fell
Slowly, carefully
Then all at once; recklessly
And hit the ground so hard

And maybe it is never the fall that hurts but it's the landing that makes us writhe in pain

I wrote you poems
Word by word
Only to have them
Classified under "stupid clichés"

And maybe you were right, there is nothing I can write that has not been written before without making it a cliché

I gave you a place
In my thoughts
Day after day
You became my (only) muse

*And maybe if they knew, I'm just a poet who always wanted to be woven in words and be someone's poem.

Death is truly as powerless as life, no dark
dusty closets to examine.
A good life is not one you cry about, but celebrate
celebrate the passing cars, with passing lives, and
the passing person talking far too loudly on a cell phone life
is the wonderful celebration of luck so please live in the spirit of life!
Do not worry about me, god has no more power than a single second,
I’m beyond somewhere, smiling and laughing, if you can handle
the present death will be a cake walk, wonder
where I’m I, but don’t fear for me, being scared of death
is fine in small doses but being forever scared is a sign
of knowing you aren’t fulfilling  your basic human duty,
and are too lazy or scared to change it, yet worry not you can.
Basically forever fearing death means you ****** up at life,
and scared as **** of what level two could be like.

I have lived with far more smiles than many do in a life time.
I have seen the world, have made friends with strangers,
had perfect strangers stumble into my life to paint a perfect night
have listened to the girl quietly strumming her guitar with the birds,
have had strangers attempt to steal my wind, yet wind is plentiful,
so give it, I still have wind.
No money than poverty enlightened my soul, every soul who
has crossed my life, I’m grateful for, you have added a splash of
paint onto the canvas that my soul rests.
It has been the truest honor to be alive to feel the wind
licking my neck, to attempt to add something to this canvas,
no skill more beneficial, unicycling as worthwhile as painting,
just one last bit of parting advice, the one thing that sticks
is memory, leave a positive memory, do it whatever style you
please trust me thats what matters, that’s why
this is called In Case I Die.

So there is this girl,
I’m in awe of her, and maybe a bit of a bored teenager.
Stunning songs about Lady Bugs about being trapped.
I changed and hide my colors manipulated things to create contrast,
to attempt to build trust, maybe I’m just being mellow dramatic.
I created a nicer self for her. It all happened in a moment.
When you are a blob (human) changing shapes is not very hard.

I finally understand how much happens in a single second.
Endless tourists are taking photos.
People are fighting for their lives in every way imaginable.
A couple is having a fight that may
or may not determine the fate of them.
A singer bows, endless people crossing the street.
Seven billion hearts are beating.
All of this and I have a crush
in one second.

A quiet goddess,
the kind of person who knows how it feels
to feel lost, and hurt but bears the burden,
I hope to god I’m doing her justice.
She is dyslexic so, in turn for
not being able to spell (that’s dead anyway)
she can describe the purest claustrophobia
without even giving a space.
The kind of person who sings stunning sentences
casually and then looks surprised at any awe.

I tell her my feelings in a rather awkward way that I intended to be an
immodest joke after she describes her plan to marry
Jack Wasp-something and
how her phone auto corrects perfection for his name.


She says that she wasn’t ready for boys at that time,
it was probably not her finest poem,
using trite ideas “it’s not you it’s me” and nice
touches like she would have told everyone the same answer,
it got the job done,
was genuine and
a complete pain killer.
I ended up agreeing with her.
“High school relationships always die with. . .”
I have no clue if I agreed because the prospect was too real
or because it really was a quietly brilliant series of words
Sometimes though its nice to play pretend for a while.


It kinda ***** knowing that door is wide open and
nothing lies behind it, at least with the door closed
you can imagine what lies behind it.
Can desperately try to open it, with
grand ideas about what’s there.



Now that her painkillers have worn off
and I have far too much free time
I sit here deeply confused — about what I’m not sure,
I guess I want to play pretend.

poems about rain are cliché
but i like to write them anyway
i live in a place where rain
is an unusual occurrence
so i fill the void with words.

i live for the warm rain of summer
monsoon season
the only reason for summer
and the first rain of fall
sweet and cool and clean

poems about rain are cliché
but i like to write them anyway.