i can't write
i can't write
i can't w r i t e
i'm happy and i'm sad and it's got me in this place
where i don't know what i want
because really, i want everything
and really, i want nothing
i can't write
anymore
the words just won't come
and i don't know what i want
i don't know what i expect
i'm happy and i'm sad and i can't write

writing in blood is easy,
writing in tears is necessary,
but writing in smiles
is impossible,
it is taking a pen and closing your eyes
and drawing soft lines and shapes
and missing words to describe the inside
a happy poet is recognized
by an empty paper

never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness

To balance inside this world and yours isn't the easiest feat, while I cling to the insides of the jungle gym where we used to play hide and seek. Should I say, "You don't call, you don't write. It's been 3 years since I've had my muse?" All the anger strewn across my elbows makes me feel like gulliver unable to do all my traveling. I've dared. I've crossed. I've taken where signs said, "Stay Away!" But all for the chance for just a minute with you, alone in Half Moon Bay.

we write things down and keep them away
to hide how we feel, we vent,
and it looks like we bottle it up
and it causes confusion.

we will love you the same way we love
the books we write, the poems we weave;
as though you are our creation,
and as though we can preserve you by keeping you on a page.

not a lot will live up to the world
that we live in in our heads, the fantasies
we concoct to create a story,
so unlike the real world.

*but because of these worlds, we can help
create a life for ourselves with a place for you,
with strong hopes and aspirations
and we are always faithful to the ideas that we have.

I am no longer sure if I wish more to be
a poet,
or a poem,
or if I even wish to be
at all.

Head fractured in two,
The juices taste ripe and sweet.
Heart sour and stale.

I write long stories
Short, medium as well
I write because I think that
I have something to tell

I've met people in my writing
All living in my head
They come to me in daytime
And they speak to me in bed

I don't know if I've met them
There's a chance they may be real
But, they're there inside me living
Letting people know just how they feel

I've singers, painters, dancers
blindmen, kids who like weird things
teachers, stutterers and hobo's
crippled kids and kings

I'm not sure if I've met them
But, by now, I know their names
I know everything about them
And I know, no one is the same

They keep me entertained and
I hope you like them too
I've got to move some boxes in my head
To see if I can find somebody new.

Sometimes when the shadow falls
and everyone else’s on their beds I turn
to look at this beer of bottle staring at me
And I say, **** it! When will you speak?
So then we’d stare at each other
and I’d swear still it wouldn’t speak
By the time the silence grew and
I couldn’t take it any longer
my temper takes on me
the beer starts to scare
So I grabbed and lift it
and poured it empty
on my throat. Might as well drink it
if it wouldn’t speak.
I start to laugh because it’s funny
when you think you’re alone. Then
I take another beer and put in the
table and I speak to it again.
Chug. The lights are on and dimmed.
I do the same rituals and after some time
You wouldn’t believe it, the beer speaks
loudly in my chest. It stirs and revolts
in my mouth. I knew it was pretending.
I knew it could speak.
Now it’s begging to be released.
The beast inside is finally pleased.
It’s funny
It’s funny how other people didn’t know.
Now all that couldn’t be spoken
Can now be said
**** it could speak through the air.
So now you know how to speak to the beer
You **** it. You grab it in the neck. Make a pet out of it
and let it give you the entertainment
Otherwise, you’ll do it wrong.