A storm brewing at the back of my head.
Moving towards my temple region.
A forecast of words to come.

Ideas, as clouds, forming in my mind.
Thunder strikes, a bulb lights up.
Words come pouring after.

As the land of script, the words
touch. Influenced by the winds
of doubt, they may stray off path.

*Here I am, waiting
for the storm, thunder roars but
no words.

everything is meaningless and i
mean it. there's no point to this
there's no point to me there's no
point in existing other than to
breathe and love and make sense
of why we're here and
i'm sick of people telling me that the smart ones
are the sad ones
because i'm not smart,
i'm sick.
i'm vomiting up all the
feelings that are so overused
and overexaggerated that i cannot
tell what is normal or not
until someone informs me
that daydreaming
of slashing wrists and leaking
red when i
drop a glass of water
isn't normal. i used
to think everyone was
this way and i used to
think there'd be some
cure
to this, some magic pill
filled with stardust
and a tendency for
chemical codependency
that would make
me stop throwing up
all the feelings
bottled in the pit of
my stomach. (the
magic pill made me throw up,
just not the bad things. only
the good ones.) and
i can't stop thinking about
how everything is meaningless
and we are all here
and they are all there
and no one will ever
know one another completely
and that's not okay with me.
it's not.

They stand with their hands in their pockets.
One man adjusts his mesh cap, an excuse.
Something tiny, precious, real bleeps furiously through cargo khakis.
He types expertly with one finger and smiles chapped lips to himself.
Leaning against the uneven coffee counter, he reaches for his latte
and walks out the door with his fashion twin and best work friend:
grown men who assimilate in substandard choices to fit-in
years past high school.

We're ripping with silence
woven through our tar veined cardboard skin,
falling falling falling apart
because our scars are unseen
and all our lost battles are faded
and distant.
They don't matter
because it was all in the past.
Standing before our unhealed eyes
is a lonely avenue
littered with forgotten memories
because all our past
is a constant hue of gray almost alive,
almost tangible so potent
that it fissures our bones
so deep that we unhinge,
falling into incomplete remnants
of what we once were.
You can't help that your desires are inhuman.
I'll fit my hand into the imprint of yours
and tell you that it's okay
if you don't want to be human anymore
because I know it is hard.
But I'm your tether
anchoring you because you can't see,
that the higher you fly
the harder will you fall.
And I can't let you break
because I promised once
that I'd be there when you fail
to stand straight.
I never told you the truth
that I wouldn't be able to see
the tears shining in your eyes
with an unrevealed anguish.
Someday maybe I'd tell you
how I'd want to die.
I want to die when you're with me
because you're the last face I want to see
before I fall into the void. This time for ever.  
I want to die with your pale moonhands
tucked in my trembling fingers.

don't tell me how to write poetry or how to write stories or how to write at all. don't tell me there's a rhyme or reason to this; don't tell me that i should be using iambic pentameter or separating each line into delicate sestets or  molding metaphors out of things that were never intended to be meaningful. don't tell me that there are rules i need to follow and that nothing i ever make will be precious and valuable and wholesome unless it conforms to the artistic, intellectual way of doing things because i am not artistic and i am not intellectual and i will write however i please because my writing is imbedded layers beneath my skin, so far down i could never tear it out in any way that wasn't raw or real or rustic. don't make those parts of me insincere simply to hold them to ideals set by different old writers in older times with different old feelings and dreams and beliefs than mine. don't tell me how to write. don't tell me how to not be me.