I see colors
And patterns
And words
And they don't make sense to anyone.
Apart from me.
No I'm not lonely.
I'm just different from anyone I met.

Yearning for some order I notice patterns in the pavement
Racing lines, creating ties, crossing T's and dotting I's
Grainy memories collide with one another as I wonder
Pondering the source of my observant sense leaving life in sunder
Beautifully benign to me, remembering the sea of color
Yellow, red, green, purple, blue
Reeling up and down and out and through
Galavanting as I grinned, lost in patterns I felt within
Perhaps I long for those times of innocent whim
But now all I see in the patterns are flaws
Yelling their inconsistencies
Rendering my blissful thoughts impossibly apart from me
Pacing mind leaving grooves behind my eyes
Partially lost in myself, watching a slow unwind
Beckoning me closer, one step at a time

its hard for us to speak as we feel.

but a poem has no rules to keep,
no untruth to shake us from our sleep.

no one to tell me i'm crazy when I repeat
the same words like a broken broken broken record,
or when I string them o ut
                   in
      nonsensi cal pa
                                 tter
                                        ns
like those girls out on the street,
because these words can bend and SCREAM.

no one ever said poetry is s'pos to make sense
just s'pos to be free
spoken from the unedited souls
of you and me


-e.r.n.

I engaged with ghosts.
I entertained notions bold.
I questioned my morality,
all the while promising my life away, happily.
So silly of me to promise what I did not have.
So reckless of me to treat his heart like a game of *** for tat.
God, forgive me.
I deserve to know this pain,
this tragedy coursing,
isolating,
haunting me with all we were to be.
Please heal him of all I've done,
and all the ones before me,
before my knife plunged.
I wonder why my heart was ripped out of my chest..
So easy to forget that I carved out his own.
God, cleanse me of all men who have wounded me.
Let me see them for who they were, lovely, broken people.
Restore my framework,
my bones battered and bruised.
To you, I release all fear and rage,
to be present in this day, anew.
God, forgive us,
restore us,
I implore you.
For every person on this Earth today
who sheds tears, dismayed,
who have not the strength to pray..
Heal us of what causes such fear and pain in the first place. I thank you.
In Jesus's name I pray.
Amen.

Amused by your moves you're using in bed to ******
Starting new to improve cause I didn't have a clue
My mind was blue, I was blind without the truth
Eyes on attractive body parts makes it seem like we're living in a zoo
We're all animals it's nothing new
Defeating these feelings with mind crush
Unlimited P and I'm laughing at how easy things are with some words
I am Cinderella
I am bigger than I thought I was last year
My true love has me on silent
I feel like I'm in an island and this talent is nothing if I can't right about those violent eyes that make me go a little crazy
I'm bringing my passion wherever
Inspiration from rides in ledbetter
I hope you're better
These visuals are getting out of control, I'm feeling myself without the L
4 seconds into my life and they're questioning who I am
Fear is real and confidence isn't
Fear not and you'll do fine
Letting go to build
We'll be alright, we'll be alright
Watch the world the way you want
It's a movie and you're destiny
The night still consumes me
I am me and that's probably all there will be to everything I do
My reasons are me
My motives are me
We're moving so fast
Define God

Patterns float
obscured
by uncertain mists
recreating
a scene perceived
and painted
in washes of water colour
overlapping, merging
transfixed
fresh and timeless.

The shape
of routine activities
unpredictably change
or shatter
behind
the inexorable advance of time
as sequences
inevitably retreat
into a fading future
until the circle is complete.

patterned brilliance.

losing touch with a setting sun
trance-like
in the lilac sky.
familiar, inopportune
words fill my wounds
like people flocking towards
dramatic settings.
They make a hum,
A chatter of awaiting smiles
stifled by the sound denied
by their silence

too far deep
a lack of care

Intense realization
that I’m steady
in the sky

I don’t       but I’m      a ******* mess
Need             not         ******* distress
To be         *******         impressed
Dead            right             her once
Yet                 like                  but
I don’t        I don’t      second guesses
Need           I even         say the rest
To be            write         to be wrong
Dead             a lot            all along
Yet                  of          all the people
To be           people       is the way
A poet         might             right
Society      tonight     sounds good
Has got    its got to             be
A hold          stop               there
On me         its all               at 8

I could tell that you had smoked a cigarette
yesterday before I saw you because
your shirt smelled like smoke and
your lips tasted like
lung cancer.  (I like to to pretend
that it doesn’t really bother me that
this is not the only connection
you have with my father.)

My parents, my sister, and you, my darling, all
have green eyes.  Green like miniature
earths turning in space, like Lake Michigan capsizing,
like the summer leaves in the woods behind my house.  
Sometimes I think that I’m more closely related to
my grandparents because when I
turned down the emeralds, I was given
sapphires to use as kaleidoscopes instead.

And, you know, my father called me a month ago and
wished me luck “in the big city” and I still
do not know if that means he knows
where I am or not; I have
not heard from my mother in over five years.  
(I like to pretend that your relationship
with your parents is much easier than mine.)

Do you remember that time when you told me that
                       “everyone sins?”
I do not think that you took into account
the amount of which we all sin.  (All sinners are equal,
but some are more equal than others.)  Sometimes
I think that the Viking blood inside of me
makes sure that I identify with
the villains            more than            the heroes.
Sometimes I think that
                                            you are the hero.

But, darling, there so many things I
tip toe around when it comes to you, and
I am not sure why—religion, politics; the
Chernobyl boy, the inked boy, my father, my mother; the
moths that live inside my gut, the layer of dust over my limbic system.
I wish that I had the words to say that I can never
be what you want, what my
family wants, what anyone wants.

I wish that I could tell you how I
think I am drowning in the in the gene pool,
how I am convinced that I’ve broken three bones
without actually breaking them, how I lay awake
at night, scared to death that my
dreamcatcher will stop working and that the
nightmares will finally catch up with me.

There are broken wishbones in my bed that
I keep as trophies of losing to luck and
blood stains on my clothes from all
the lambs that I’ve been forced to slaughter.
All I want to do is tell you why I prefer
cigar smoke            to            cigarette smoke
and how I would rather have you
quit all together than live another day knowing that
you’re dying faster than me.

But darling, I watched the world spin last night
when I opened my eyes and looked at you
looking at me, and for now, it’ll do.  You
can be the nightlight in the corner of my room.
Wait for me in my chrysalis. Listen to my wings flutter.