Because after years of chasing after you trying to prove

           that I was smart enough for you
       that I was funny enough for you
    that I was right there for you
that I would never give up on you
    I gave up on myself
I was the stupidest one after all
   You proved it
      You were the funny guy
  and You were always right
     and You're still here, don't know why
        and You should have given up
           and yet here we are.

My confusion could be simplified
through careless exemption
in the sense of letting a deep cut heal
save the stitches
a curious thing left open beneath
a layer of textured, delicate skin
my topical treatment
of words from others full
of hopeless affection
and their eventual happy endings
and alcohol
**** the pattern of young humanity
I’m afraid even in the arms of
new friends
I would still remember old warmth
I would still hold myself closed
and fall open to infection.

whenever I meet someone new, I inevitably check their limbs for scars.

they are almost always there, some solitary little wisps, some like a cross-hatching, a pattern, a score...

...and I find that the stories written there are irresistible, and the wounds run deeper than I can kiss.

I always fall for the broken ones, whose scars travel further than I've ever been.

There is so much fear in even the simple idea of letting someone get close enough to hear the way you breathe.

Poetry is just taking

Fear
Pain
And anger
And forcing it into words

Poetry is simply taking

Sadness
Depression
And anxiety
And giving it rhythm

Poetry is merely taking

Worry
Love
And broken hearts
And making it a pattern

Poetry is taking these things
And writing it in blood
Pouring your heart out
And giving them life

I am beginning to wonder
how many more times
I will awake
to another sunrise
to find
that I never quite shut my eyes
yet again-
I was just spinning or
maybe swimming
in these visions of sins
and grins met upon
the second guess that
set in after that double take.
Is this
something we can make
or will it just
make everything
more tedious-
what we are is fleeting
and I’m lost on a bus
and the schedules swing
in pendulums-
when they hit the bottom
they strike as weapon
of wasted time
and I need a ride.
  I might get off track
but at least
I can keep you laughing
with the things I say
behind a timed rhyme style-
I’m done with denial
of my actions of a child.
Excuse me
I just went a little wild
trying to beat the feeling
that I was mild,
just mediocre.
Compensation
for a consolation prize
I’ll play the joker.
I don’t have a spine
but I’m paying for things
that aren't mine
Don’t worry
I’ve just lost my mind
in the shrinking times
that grow more rapidly
with their progression.
The earth stands still
while heads
are standing upside down
in the sands of their dreams
and perspective realities
I’m up in the trees
or maybe
I’m just trying to get closer
to the sky
so I can feel free.
There’s where I need to be-
those dying stars aren’t fleeting.
Not immortal,
no maybe not;
but so ever radiant
in a cataclysmic death.
Finding my way
through broken phrases
and run-ons
I’m tripping towards
my glory days
wondering
if I can actually make it
or if I will be forced
into the illustrations
of exaggerated narrations
of a day last week
or last month,
does it matter if it’s gone?
I’m just like you,
trying to hold on.

I don't want to think about you
So I read about the latest Plane Crash

Talking to you is riding a roller coaster
I can feel the adrenaline
i remember the crash

Of the waves
And a bath/ a shower
It doesn't matter
No water is hot enough
To wash your flesh a  w     a       y

Underground
Hair still growing
My curls fall like the fibonacci sequence
Convincing me there's some pattern to this madness

And now
All that's left is
A mirror, a maus, and a Cashmere Cat