I’m meeting a new mystery
And it’s introducing itself with rage

Who’s to say what’s limited to me?
Why can’t I collect?
Why am I forced to shed skin I barely wore?

I want to wear you until you fall off
Through four seasons of the year

I want to feel you feed me your troubles
I want to fix you

And then

I want to feel you leave me once we’re done
I want to hear all your goodbye’s at once

One day we were counting
the ghosts of our mistakes
and you randomly brought up,
"Ernest Hemingway saved his manuscripts
by throwing them out the upstairs window
while his studio was burning."

I compared you to Hemingway
that a man can love words
more than an actual person,
more than his own life at stake.

To which I responded,
as I hope it marred your mind,
“I liked the idea of loving you.
I wanted some sort of filler
to compensate for the feelings I got.”

Your fixation was intensely unnerving,
like you were unwrapping every vein that rippled in my body.
I carried on, watching the embers of fault lick you profusely.

“For some reason, I use people until there’s nothing left to use.
Romantically, I used you to cover what I wanted-
Cast you in daydreams where it is like this right now,
in a coffee shop underneath the streetlights.

“It was all the idea of it.
As much as I wanted to make up our relationship,
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to really be with you.
To be close to you, your hand in mine,
to watch your favorite movies under a warm blanket, to jump
in the car with you to chase a sunset.
To have you text me at two in the morning
and tell me I’m beautiful.”

You began to protest,
but I wouldn’t listen.
There is something satisfying
in expressing true happiness
rather than dwelling on it in your mind.
I knew you weren’t giving me that.

“So I don’t think I was ever in love with you.
Just the thought of you.”

I bought a piece of damaged art.  Art so complex and abstract, with dark colours and rough textures, broken faces and trapped doors. What in past may have been innocent, has now become jaded, corrupted by ideas and devoured by hungry rage.  The tunnel of fate has flushed this paintings’ nature, seduced the purity of its essence.  A master piece has been morphed.  The price has gone up.  The wall space needed for this work of art would be massive, secure, and bullet proof.  The nails will dig deep, this piece will sooner or later feel heavy.

But the pride of showing off this commitment is precious.  It’s tempting and full of promise.  A piece so desirable and unique, others wonder how it was hung so high.  Like a crystal brick in the wall, so rare and contagious, persuasive and mysterious. Perhaps I fell in love with this foggy picture, I adjusted the lens of my perception - clarity now being a boring adventure.

So what stops me from taking this heavy, disturbing painting down?  Do I fear the ladder, panic I will drop this estranged beauty on the ground?  Maybe I enjoy viewing it from such a distance, I neglect what it really would look like up close.  I detach myself from its reality, only to live on in our own anxious dream.  For what exists in this fantasy, is not eternally destructive, it’s illusory and… incredible.

I know the day will come.  The day my walls wear thin.  The nails will get rusty and break, the painting will slip and surrender, and I will catch it… only to realize how much smaller and light it really is.  How beautifully innocent it has come to be.  Colours will be vivid, broken faces turning into blameless smiles, and trapped doors now unlocked.  With its temper diminished and bliss established, it will look vulnerable and foolish, not suitable for my passion craving mind. And I will take this small, uninteresting painting, and throw it away.

And look for a new damaged one to hang on my wall.  

And look for a new person to fix.

I'm writing a poem with an overly excessive name.
I'm overly excessive with my obsession.
Overly excessive with being different.
Overly-over all the situations partaking in the hyper irrigation of the words from my head to the  paper causing stimulation.
We all have that overly excessive stimulation fixation
we like to partake in.
Addiction is what makes the world go round.
Chasing violence, money, *** and who knows what else.
It's all greed.
We even chase greed. We just give it different need.
War, Currency, Women and who knows what else.
I'm writing a poem with an overly excessive name.
A poem with an overly excessive greed.
An overly excessive need.

They come and go, those pretty faces
Sharing dark hair and pretty brown eyes
They peak my interests for a little while
But then they engrave themselves on my mind

I'll never forget them, those pretty faces
Providing sweet satisfaction for my eyes
But darling, you're still my number one
I drift back to you when they're gone

I am fixated on the sun- slowly hiding behind the Sierras, mystifying all but you.
From the air escaping your lungs- vibrating your vocal folds-
The atmosphere of the serenity surrounding us is shattered.
Unconsciously analyzing your mind's expression, I register your truth.
To which I blush and giggle.
Because the sun setting tonight, is unlike all others.

And I am fixated on you, slowly becoming less mysterious

laughing laughing i love u laughing
         i’m scared of loving u
                          just joking. u’r scared
                                    i hope u understand
                                         love u
                                                   u
                                             just u wait
                                                      u’ll see
                                                        u fell into her arms
                                                          u’­ll fall into mine
                                     haha i’ll ask u out
                                                     just u wait
                                                            ­  u’r sweet
                                            have i told u that before? ;)
               how many times have i told u?
                                                  i’ll guess u’d say ‘lots’
                                                          ­          u need to loosen up.
                                       just joking. i like u
                                                                      u’r ******* gorgeous
                                        did i forget to tell u?
                                                              ­ well. u are
                                                   sorry. it’s all u’r fault
                                                           ­                u’r not pardoned
                                                      ki­dding yes u are
                                                             ­                u’r sweet
                                                           ­        (yeah u are)
                                                              sorry. it's ur fault i have butterflies
                                              in conclusion: i like u
                                                               ­       (sorry. u can’t avoid me)
                                                             ­             i like u, and
                                                         there’s nothing u can do about it
                           hahaha.
                                                         ­                   laughing laughing laughing.

Hit the bottom hard,
hit the bottom hard you will
to where those pills once filled its full capacity.
Drink it down with a shot of dismay and curiosity.
Look round
and watch the sadness consume.
Don't the walls talk when they get like this?

Step outside and breathe
the Autumn air,
hate for caring, forget that it happened.
Watch the stars switch around.
Let this be as your sign, you've taken too much.
Tonight, you should forget where you hid those pills inside you.
I may be here,
but I should be there with you.

A glance from you is a seed of kudzu.
The madness spreads,
wrapping around each tree,
gripping it in a panic.

This is not healthy.
I use you like I would pop pills
to forget about things
I don't like about my existence.

Can you lose yourself
within yourself?

Sometimes,
when I sit alone,
I wish the forest of my life would burn.
I would light the match,
and I could once again
see the sky.