lazy summer afternoons spent escaping the Georgia heat
pollution from the city intertwines itself with our damaged skin
i sit on his front porch as he and I torture our lungs
i never experienced him outside the four walls surrounding his bedroom
it was those walls he felt more secure;
a recluse out of insecurity, not desire
the sun and moon,
i rise in the morning just as he begins to set
only to be awoken by a sudden terror that if tomorrow is never guaranteed,
why should i waste a third of my life sleeping
when I'd rather be in the arms of a man who never shows his face?
i recall i fell in love with him many times,
once when i saw him hiding in the back row of the theater,
another when i heard his rasp in a voicemail,
after we made love in a room with no AC,
and once more when i followed you into a dimly lit room
i fell in love as you slipped your hand into mine
and the velvet underground played somberly,
and drowned out the white noise that came out of my mouth
as i whispered in your ear;
"If I Could Make The World As Pure"
please, make this easy on me
"And Strange As What I See"
i often have to wipe away tears as you turn your back
"I'd Put You In A Mirror"
and put on your clothes
"I Put In Front Of Me"
i'll mumble an I love you
"Linger On, Pale Blue Eyes"
and hope you mean it as you repeat it back
"Linger On, Pale Blue Eyes"
there is too much to lose, i am scaring both of us


Laughter can be heard.
So loud it comes from all directions.
Pointed fingers and dripping nostrils.
Exploding stomachs as the heavy aching thunder rolls from below.
It used to be just a trickle.
Only triggering occasionally.
But now.
Every move that's made succumbs to it.
For truly in the mind they belong right here.
And for just a few heavenly moments can paradise be felt.
Thus what follows is accepted.
For one to believe that those tiny specs of preciousness are worth.
Because soon they will be gone.
The days are made brighter and easier to maneuver.
But its like having a rusted cart to push for miles.
With only drops of oil left to get it there.
When nothing is wanted more than to just cross into the prosperous lands.
Focusing too much on any point but the one that these boots do tread.
Always leads the traveler and his belongings astray.
Although as time has came and went.
His precious things slowly fell away to the ages.
Maybe one day it will fill again.
But its best just to keep the eyes trained on the horizon.
Storms tend to betray those that fail to give lady fate proper respect.

The candle is almost at its end..
A once bouncing flame atop its mountain.
Now sputters for life.
Grasping at anything to just remain.
It seemed the more hands that would come and shield.
The faster the wax walls would cascade down.
Its sad..
To watch something so beautiful.
Turn grotesque.
Feeding on the life force of anything it came into contact with.
Justifying the actions to build such a  elaborate facade.
The creator is held by its deception.
Cultivating flaws as if it needed some appraisal.
But in the end just lacked approval.
Washing hands in the same water the idea was brought to drown.
Whispering sweet nothings to sooth a mind  hemoraging.
But when it was the same hand that inflicted the wound.
Will this game truly turn rampant.
So long as there is a die to be cast.
The possibility of loaded questions commemorate the stacked odds.
For when the turn comes.
And the die are no longer an option.
The board glides away.
game over.


It’s been a long time
Looks like it’s been a very very long time
It’s haunting me
Wanting to break free

I always leave
Then comes back
Sometimes it’s the other way around
(What’s the difference?)

I always stop
Then starts again
Sometimes it’s the other way around
(What’s the difference?)

It’s the tide, the high and low
Washes what’s on the shore
Then returns what I thought I already lost
-memories, emotions, words

I comeback then leaves, I start then stops
I am coming back, again and again
To free the emotions, the words
To meet the shore, where I always belong

It’s the waves of poetry
That brings me back, always
To my first love

I always come back, but always not for good..

How I miss reading and writing. Sorry for the poor poem, it's my first write after what seems a very long time!

Don’t kiss me; I taste like shattered glass. My past isn't your fault, but hell, if I don’t go out of my way to make it seem like that. I can't help but feel like I'm failing you. Maybe we're failing each other. Maybe we’re both failing, separately. I’m starting to accept the possibility that one day, I will hear love songs and think of someone that is not you. You stain every chord of my favorite songs; it can’t fade.
It can’t fade.
It can’t fade.
The English language is shifty and inarticulate; love is too many things. I can’t tell if this is love, or if I just want it to be.

I don't know how to make this okay.
I know you don’t know what to say.

"One day, you'll grow up
And you'll make a lot of friends
Or maybe you won't
Maybe you'll just have a few tight buddies
But if anyone tries to change you
you don't need them
You're amazing the way you are"
I told her

She looked up at me
With large, doeful eyes
Nuzzled me and mooed as if to say
"I'm not sure what you just said
But I think I understood it"
As I rubbed her head and ears

At least I can give life advice to a Jersey heifer
Before my program ends and I go back home

cerebral diarrhea
versus verborrhea
unpunctuated disequilibrium
generates opprobrium
unfree verse
fettered or worse
verbal vomit:
bomb it.
confessional purgings
depressional urgings
emo-bingeing over unrequited love
makes this poet go off / out / above

Just a little ditty inspired by 90% of what I read at HP ☺
Sorry I'm so judgmental but "I gotta be me"

how does one take part in promises.
Long since past.
Like riding a roller coaster that never seems to cease its desent.
or finding a seat.
In an empty theatre.
When will conversation start in I and not Us.
Everyone in this life is a stranger.
Passing on a cross walk.
Regardless of what side they began.
Eventually they walk away.
Until death do us remain apart.
For living adrift.
With a crooked rudder.
Has established the circles to be repeated.
And as this new revolution comes to the end.
A hand slips and gives control to the tides.
Removing any facade that hinted that there was any control to be had.
With no map.
No navigator.
No urge to go much of anywhere.
For the sea has already stripped away any feature that could be used to identify the once grand vessel.
Even the fish below keep their nourishment to themselves.
Granting a mild pyschosis.
But these mirages turn too real.
And waiting on bruises to heal.
Do not make the gashes bleed less.
Just causes the shock to over take this shell of a body.
In which no move against its advance is made.
For it is the only thing that wishes to.
Leaving humanity in the distance.
As the arms of oblivion surround the fractured soul.

Hummingbird Jul 14

Close your eyes.

It doesn't hurt at all, I promise.

If you get scared, you can squeeze my hand. I don't mind.

I know it looks bad, but it's okay. It's all okay.

You don't need to be afraid.

I promise.

But when I open my eyes,
I find rather quickly
That there's no one else here.
I was talking to myself.
Reassuring myself.

The room is blank.
The light that comes from
The only window
Is dull and grey.

It's the only thing that's comforting here.

It's too quiet. Too empty.
Too hollow.

The silence is deafening.
My chest feels heavy.

If I close my eyes,
For a second,
I can remember another place.
A place with color.
A place with you.

For a second,
I can imagine it.
I can pretend I'm there.

I can almost feel you there,
For a second.

But it doesn't last nearly long enough,
And then you're gone.

The problem is,
This room doesn't exist.
It's a metaphor.

Because the moments in time that I feel (almost) normal,
Where I am (almost) passing for neurotypical,
That's when I see you.
I'm there.
I can almost reach you,
Touch you.
I can almost be like you.
I can almost...

I can only ever almost.
And almost has never been enough.

And I can tap my hands against yours,
Or rub my scars,
Or hold my doll closer to me,
Or bounce up and down,
But all the stimming in the world
Won't keep me calm forever
And it won't make me better.

And I just want to be better.
I don't want to be sick.
I'm so sick of being sick.

I've tried accepting it all as part of me.
As it being me.

But I can't.

Because I see the way you look at me.
It's the same way everyone looks at me
When they think I don't notice.
I know that look.
It's the same look that teachers gice their students when they just can't help them with their problem.
The only good thing as that you don't
Use the voice that everyone else does.
I know that voice, too.
It's the same voice people use when talking to a scared animal that might become hostile.

I am not an animal.

I am not a lost cause!

But I see the way you look at me.
I know that look.
Everyone gives me that look,
Once they figure it out.

I am not an animal,
I am not a lost cause.
At least,
That's what I keep trying to tell myself.

But I don't even believe it anymore.

I want to be better.
I want to be better,
But I don't think I can be the better
You want me to be.

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