i want you to destroy me.

take the jagged pieces of my puzzle like body, apart.

cut down the flowers i've grown in my lungs and douse my dreams in kerosene, burning them all.

i beg of you, construct a black hole and watch as it swallows up the billions of stars that once occupied my now blank stare.

COMPLETELY obliterate me and never look back.

leave me in pieces, scattered amongst those of your past lovers; forgetting about me like you forgot about them.

for this is what it seems you heard me say when i softly whispered that i was in love with you.

I always have at least one of my writings
scripted and hanging in my room.


They may not be obvious
but they are there somewhere
among all the stuff
because if I don't love it,
why should anybody else?

Maybe if you throw me at the bottom of an ocean I’ll be deep again, or maybe if you throw me up so high I’ll finally fly. Poor can be lack of feelings, poor can be lack of expression, poor can be lack of understanding and poor can be me. Sadness can be sometimes blue, sadness can also paint you black even if your roots are golden.
It’s okay. You don’t need to always shine. It takes special people to see your blaze and it would be preferable if they’re blind. Not necessarily visually impaired, but devoid of light. Maybe they’ll tell you that you’re not as poor and can actually make them feel something. It’s scary when you carry nostalgia for a specific thing that you have no eye sight for. No eye sight except at the back of your mind.

The burning desire for something that is unknown is like searching for something invisible with the naked eye. I feel naked, naked and so full of everything.
I am driven by notion.
I’ll be merged with the darkness.
I’ll be surging with the waves.
You’ll feel me in the gentle breeze,
Smell me between the leaves after rainfall,
and you won’t be as petrified to take one step closer.

Oh darling, I see a whole world in your eyes, but I'm afraid I won't see myself in there

Dear Ex-Lovers,

i. You were poison to me and I loved to get burnt. How could you leave me lying breathless on the floor wanting more? You used me like an escape and I welcomed it. You filled my head with empty promises; I was just a puppet on your string. Oh darling I should have known I was dancing  with the devil when I was captured in your eyes.

ii. You were my midnight calls and 4am drunk promises. We spent our summer under the moon with poetry written on the back of your palm. I was your everything and for a time, you were mine. But summer is over and I am gone and you are left with the realization I only used you as a muse.

Iii. It started off with shy hugs between you and I. We were misplaced kisses and awkward silence on a Saturday afternoon. You were all push and no pull, I was too. We never tried hard but that's okay; we were only a distraction from the battles we had within.

iv. I always wondered how I could love someone as cold as you. I was your blanket and you were always trying to keep warm. Maybe you needed a reason to keep trying in this turbulent world and maybe I just loved to play with broken things, but three months have passed and I still sit by your grave and wonder if all I ever did was suffocate the little candle you had burning within.
-V

Perspective is everything darling.

Anything you put work into you begin to hate and anything you put money into you love, so its a constant cycle.

I was a mad independent individual and you broke me down to be a weak dependent among other people.

I loved feeling something new.

The stories I used to respect and look up to were becoming my own, even if they weren't much.

Always put your well being, career, and dreams before any person or thing. Your life comes first and that perfect kind of love comes after.

I hate feeling helpless more than anything in this world. Even in the small moments when your feet dangle while you're riding passenger with a person you don't know very well and you're having to laugh at every awkward topic the driver brings up trying to start a conversation.  'It's polite' is what you've been taught but whatever happened to a deep conversation right off the bat?  Whatever happened to meaning and opinion and stories and not just a casual small talk everywhere you go? I want to be told something that will make me remember you. Tell me about the time you got so drunk you ended up sleeping alone in a field and the stars were the only thing that mattered at that moment, there weren't any other issues to cloud your mind and your bottle of bourbon made the best companion. How you had this unexplainable feeling of living in the moment, like nothing else could ruin your peace.  I don't want to hear who won the most recent game, I don't want to hear about the current event taking over the news channels. I want a story.

Some friendships come together quickly and you wonder how you hadn't known this person earlier. They meet up and get all intertwined with each-other and go crashing like a comet, burst into the ground and destroy everything in sight. Some are gradual friendships, the two can spend time apart but still grow together over time. I call these perennial friendships because they will return every year.

My dad was always a big hairy question mark sitting on the couch. He watched brave-heart, liked old westerns and cheesecake, was an Elvis Presley fan and liked cars. Fast old cars. He loved God and hated Obama and his views were oh-so traditional that sometimes you wished you knew why. You wished you knew his whole story but he kept everything private. That's all I know about him and I grew up in the same house as him. 20 years together and that's all I could tell you. There was apparently a lot in his past and he didn't talk much. When we went out to eat we could have a full meal in silence and it wouldn't feel awkward at all. I was told I took after him in a lot of ways and one of them being that I was an extreme introvert. I called into a radio show when I was 8 on fathers day and they asked what celebrity my dad reminded me of, "John Wayne" I replied. The host sounded surprised to hear an older actor, "and why is that?" he asked. I gasped for some more breath because I was so excited I would hear my voice on the radio, "because, he always says, "thatll be the day"". There was an eruption of laughter on the radio and when they played it I blared the stereo so my dad could hear.

As I got older I sort of hated and loved when I would see patters in personality occur between my mother and I. I used to make fun of her laugh and her hair by calling them witchy, but then I noticed once I was a little older that I had both of those things and that I loved this description at the time. The sound and tone of her voice was another, I made fun of her for being a northerner but never pronouncing a G at the end of her words; "Goin, movin, talking, we'll see without pronouncing the break, so it sounded like well. I would catch myself pronouncing those words in the exact same tone and I'd say to myself *******.

Money is a trap as much as it is a tool of freedom. With money you can do whatever you want as long as you continue to make it, and making money can become a trap within itself. Without the need to make money constantly you can have the freedom to do whatever you like but without that money you are limited with what you can do with that time. So if time itself doesn't slap a pair of cuffs on your hands, money will.

I don't like playing games I like winning them.

I'm talking about defining our own personal generation, if we were to define our generation as a general whole it would be dubstep, iphones, social media, and street-culture wear. But we are an almost underground type of generation, alternative I guess. When the generics of our generation are going to sleep we are rising, with our Acapulco, our records, our high life tall boys, and our ink. The wolves come out at night.

I want to play piano on your black flag tattoo. I want to sit around the fire and watch you howl at the moon. I want to lay my head upon your chest and hear your heartbeat pace I want to sit back in your bed and watch the sun illuminate the place.  

His favorite song was Tom Sawyer by Rush but he reminded me more of a HuckleBerry Finn. Rolled pant legs, straw hat, and barefeet everywhere he went, always on the go, always yelling and dancing and even the way he smoked a cigarette was attractive to me and only me. He had a James Franco look about him when he was cheesing. It was those smile lines around the eyes, it killed me. He ruined the look with a head full of hair he was growing.

Rushing anything is never a good thing, good things take patience.