We lost you 10 days ago.

On the first day
I had just gotten my old job back
I walked into the main office
And told everyone how nice it was to see them again
Then I went back into my office
And heard you had passed
I flew home that night

On the second day
I tried to rest, recover the sleep I had missed  on the first
I couldn’t
My family wanted to go out to eat
I told them I couldn’t leave my room

On the third day
I got to see the friends we grew up with
Some I hadn’t seen in five years
We sat at a table for four
I kept looking to the open space to my right expecting to see you in a chair

On the fourth day
I bought a suit for your funeral
It had been so long that none i owned fit me
You would’ve thought I looked nice
You would have told me that

On the fifth day
I spent a night in your apartment
Surrounded by people that loved you
Some that loved me
I stood in your room and lingered
Our close friend saw me
We held each other and he showed me all the things in your room you had taken from him
I told him about an orange shirt you had taken from me because it was too large
We pulled out an orange shirt from a pile, thinking we had found it
It was a different shirt

On the sixth day
I got to see your face for the last time
I focused on your hands
because they looked how I remembered
I got to see you be put in the ground
I got to see my first love there
We hadn’t spoken in years
She told me she was married
I told her that was nice to hear
I spoke to your father, he had to be reminded of who I was
He hadn’t seen me since I was 8
But once he remembered
We spoke and we laughed
I spoke to your mother
I thanked her for moving to our town, I thanked her for you
I told her about all the good you brought to my life
She said I did the same for you

I cried that day and every day prior

On the seventh day I bought a flight back to Los Angeles for that night
I spent Mother’s Day with my family
I ate bad Greek food
We had to pull over next to a Wawa for me to use the restroom
I took the flight home
Normally I would have called a taxi but I asked my roommate to pick me up
You had introduced me to him
He used to sublet your room in our old apartment
I told him about the last seven days
I didn’t cry once

On the eighth day
I returned to work
Back for good I told them
I told my boss I ordered shakshuka for lunch because it was the last thing I ate with you
She said  she was considering the chopped salad

On the ninth day
Most of the same things happened
I spoke to the close friend who was still grieving in New York
I told him things would improve once he left the city
I saw my girlfriend who is recovering from a torn acl
She’s prescribed medication to help with her pain
I couldn’t stop asking her why I didn’t feel worse

On the Tenth day
I made a mistake at work
One that will likely never rear its ugly head
It’s the worse i’ve felt in 4 days
Sometimes I wish I could live in the pain I felt when I lost you
There nothing could hurt me
There nothing could be worse
You are gone and each day that passes you will be gone a little longer
And each day I will feel a little better
And I worry I may hate myself for that

We sit beside each other, staring out at the same moon
You motion to leave as I hide the truth, which
is
I'm still trying to hold onto this

I feel each grain of sand between my toes
I'm nostalgic for a moment I'm still in
Yes,
I know I'm rambling

I'd talk til' I am out breath
Still. A moment under the stars can't erase years of bitterness
I
Wish it hadn't come to this

I wish I hadn't had to choose
between losing me or losing you
but
as long as we're here

Can we stay a little longer?

How did you get here?

I drove, don’t really see how that’s relevant.

That’s not what I mean. I mean what led you to come in here today?

I was thinking about Balloons.

Balloons?

Yes.

Would you like to expand on that.

Should I? Sorry, I’m new to this…

Feel free to.

Ok. Balloons. I was thinking about how you never see a balloon in a bad place. Whether it’s a birthday or a celebration or whatever, if there are balloons around people are happy. They’re fun too, you can knock them around in the air, or **** in the helium and your voice gets all funny. But I uh was thinking about how they’ve come to sort of symbolize happiness for us. Like they’re just bits of latex and nylon filled with helium or air, nothing special. Why not lamps? Or wine glasses, or some other inanimate object. But no we settled on balloons and somehow everyone agreed that if balloons are around you should be smiling. So I guess sort of the inverse is true, like if you’re around a bunch of balloons and you’re not happy you must really be depressed. So I’m standing there at my niece’s third birthday and she’s a great kid by the way, really ******* smart too in a way that you just know she’s gonna be something some day. So I’m standing there ya know surrounded by balloons and my wonderful niece and I’m ******* miserable, like I’m telling you I wanted to ******* blow my brains out. And I’m thinking, ****, I should  probably go to therapy. Does that answer the question?

Yes. yes it does.

People only like you when it's convenient,
true
People only like you when it's convenient
to.
Not your family,
true
but only them because they have
to.
Don't laugh at this you know it's
true
They're not with you when you need them
to.
When you're dark and cold and stormy,
true
They cheer for the islands they're whisked away
to.

Even you,
true
The one I was there for, when you needed me
to.
Even when I didn't want to be,
true
I would have scaled a thousand mountains
to
Get to you.
True.
I guess it never mattered
to
you.
True.
You say you'll be there for me, but I don't trust you
to.

When you left silently
it reminded me
why it seems to be
I don't revise my poetry

I want to
feel nothing for you.
I want to
soak myself in Novocain
when you pass me on the street.
I want to
not be blown away by the way
your hips shift when you walk .
I want to
delete memories of you
like they were data on a disk.
I want to
shove you so deep into a crowded backpack.
That thousands of years could pass
before I found you.
I want to
be like the neutered dog
able to **** away and away
with no consequence.
I want to
close my eyes and think of anything else
literally anything else
like dead bodies decaying
or something along those lines.
I want to
be free from your chains
and I mean that.
You don't seem to understand that
but I do.

Mean it.

Believe me.

I want to feel nothing for you.

is
cutting off bits of my infected self
and sharing them with you
but the pieces are small
so the poison's diluted
so you get to go home ok
and I...
I get to hurt a little less

Sometimes I want to take my car
and drive to the middle of a desert
and get out and lay down and just stay there
until something happens.
Like a coyote eats me
or a dust storm blows me away...
I don’t know why I come up here
all the time,
maybe it’s like weird,
free therapy for me. I’m sorry,
I know that when I talk
I *** people out...
I think I’m poison.
And maybe getting up here is like me cutting
off bits of my infected self and
sharing it with you.
But the pieces are small
so the poison’s diluted,
so you get to go home ok.
And I… I get to hurt a little bit less.

Are we certain Eden's snake is evil?
Do the scales hide someone who's
grown hungry for the taste of upheaval?
Someone who saw more than a pair of two
see what I mean, and what I argue here.
That it was Eve's fault that she believed
because the intent of a snake is clear
she should have expected to be deceived.
Perhaps I'm saying you shouldn't blame me,
and maybe its convenient for me to shift
the blame onto you, but honestly
I told you we were bound to drift.

I don't feel the need to apologize because
Before we began you knew what I was.

Everyone wants to block out the sun
so as to preserve their own little world
as if they were the only one
as if they wouldn't expect to touch a soul if they twirled
and twirled and twirled until they got dizzy
and promptly took a seat upon the floor
this is about the time you tell me you miss me
before you rise again and twirl some more
We fall away from happiness
in fear of the sadness it may bring
but a world without pain and joylessness
feels like a world without anything

I stare down the ticking clock begging for the hand to stop
because a life's worth nothing if time is all you've got

I wonder if you ever forget about me
momentarily,  summarily I
don't have the words to tell you what I mean
and I feel as if it'd be worthless to try.
That thing pops into my head the moment I wake,
I won't take up your time telling you of
the time I slid my hand off the, earthquake,
even the most powerful one can not shake a dove
How easy it would be to rise above the skies,
to float above the common folk,
to not worry about your little lies,
to not resent you every time you spoke.

It's always better when you're lost in it.
Without the time to contemplate the loss of it.

I have a
scar on my
left forearm that
reminds me of you

not that I
cut myself or
anything like that
it's more of a mistake

than anything
I was making penne
pasta in one of those large
black pots that every family has

in one cabinet or
another and I boiled it
so it was really hot so I could
eat which was the entire point of

the whole process
but I couldn't stop thinking
of you, your honey-wheat hair
that could pass for spaghetti if you

wanted it to
but you never did so
you always straightened it
I think that's when I was thinking

of when I
poured in the pasta
too quick and burned my arm
you were time consuming so much so

that I couldn't remember
what I had been doing the whole time
because unfortunately I couldn't help but be stuck on
you

tying words together
to create a line of stories told
life's an innocuous document
with the most important moments stained in bold

my heart is a once radiating sun
left too long in cold
flung off a mountaintop
gawked at as it rolled

till it lie at the feet of townsfolk
who were warned of tales of old
that though this thing may shine
all that glitters is not gold

Why do i still care is probably too simple a question
it implies an easy answer like “her eyes” or “her smile”
but it isn’t that
it’s not love at least not yet i’m too young
so it isn’’t that
think think think
there’s been other girls
four in fact
but what did they not have?
what were they missing
what made them Roseline and not Juliet
does “it” exist? it’s possible i guess
maybe nothing tangible could account for what i’m feeling
i doubt it but it’s a possibility
So what is it?
Seriously(tension builds)
Maybe it’s because you still care
sure I only know because of the grapevine
but i’ll just assume it still counts


I refuse to believe im the Pip to your Estella
I’d like to believe I have too much pride for that
Pride pride pride
maybe that’s the answer
I messed you up pretty good the first time
but then again you did win round 2
so maybe it’s just a game
a game my mind is just set on finishing


Maybe you’re just evil
crazy i know
really crazy
lunatic crazy
but still is it that crazy a thought?
you say you love me when you don’t
you say you don’t love me when you do
you say you miss us
but somehow “I” am not included


Maybe I have simply ruined you for myself
I’ve built you up in my head
to be something you simply can not live up to
It’s hard to explain but to me at least in my mind
you are a different type of “perfect”
Flawed in all the right ways
proficient where it really matters
In my head you don’t make mistakes
In my head you choose me first so you don’t regret it later
In my head you act rationally
In my head I create fake things


So to answer my question I must decide on an answer
and i choose all of them
because that’s life
that’s what it is
you’ll meet a girl who you feel is perfect for you in every way
except for the fact that she isn’t
and it won’t make sense
and it will drive you crazy
and you’ll write some stupid poem at a late hour trying to find an answer to your question
until you realize it doesn’t matter
because you’re young and she’s young
because there are mistakes to be made
nights to be forgotten
people to meet
places to see
and all the while there is time to sit down
to really ponder and finally come to the conclusion
that You
yes You
are not the one I end up with

It's not the same

Your dress looks beautiful
the weather is fantastic
this restaurant you picked
amazing
the waiter
delightful

It's not the same

What did Gina tell you?
That her bladder is so small that she has to ***
every time she washes her hands?
that's hilarious
how inconvenient

It's not the same

Pass the salt
no the other salt
haha
I know that's pepper
what a cute smile you have when you're playing a joke

It's not the same

Always the jokester
never serious

It's not the same

Did you smile like that when you let him touch you it's not the same

What a beautiful dress you have
can I try some of your pasta
wow
delicious
you know I heard it was supposed to storm out in--

It's not the same

I think I'm going to use the restroom
*** even though you don't even have to
Now that I am washing my hands I do
I'm no better than ******* Gina
Don't punch the wall

It's not the same

You forgave her
she apologized
she had to apologize
punch the wall

It's not the same

Finish washing your hands
Compose yourself
You love her
and she loves you
she always did
she made a mistake
we all make mistakes

It's not the same

not like that
we don't all do that
THAT
is not normal
Hi
Honey yes, they do have towels in the bathroom
no I didn't know they used to make creme brulee here
why did they stop?
wow amazing
why did you stop?

It's not the same

I look tired?
Works been crazy
good lie
you're worrying
she doesn't know
or care

It's not the same

You forgave her
That doesn't mean I have to
because I know
as well as you do
as much as you try to fight it




It's not the same

I hate to admit my feelings
because to admit makes them real
and in my experience real things end
eventually
so i'll keep it to myself
and maybe whisper it softly
so if you listened real hard
then maybe you might hear it
I can't explain how I feel about you
I'm not in love with you
nor am I infatuated with you
but I want to drink coffee and eat biscuits with you
want to look up from the newspaper and see you
pick up the telephone and hear you
reach across the bed and feel you
I want to be near you
To admit is to make it real
to be real is to end
so I guess this is goodbye
to someone who was once
a very dear friend

Hi.
I’m a starving artist.
But not for what you’re hungry for.
I want... more.
Fame and money is not for me
but neither is the
one big happy family
I'm a starving artist
and not because my belly's empty
although it is
and not because you don't know my name
although you don't
I'm starving because my body burns
happiness like my metabolism burnt fat
which caused the other girls to hate me
because I looked like what they wanted to look like
even though I didn't like what I looked like
so I'd starve myself or binge myself to fill a void that wasn't there.
I'm a starving artist
not because I'm not someone better
but because it's been so long
oh so long
since I've been
me.

I like things that are ugly
Like dirt
but not the nice dirt
you know the kind lightly sticks to wrists
the kind that you can easily wipe off
not that kind
I like the ugly kind
the seep into your shoes kind
the ruin a wardrobe kind
the type of dirt that you didn't know a second ago
but the type you'll know for years to come
I like things that are ugly
like a broken pool cue
but not the nice kind
the one with the decent tip
the one that we all call "old reliable"
not that one
I like the shattered one
the one we fear will break each time
the kind that all the chalk in the world couldn't mend
I like things that are ugly
Like an unmade bed
but not the nice kind
the ruffled sheets that beckon you to enter
not that kind
I like my blankets strewn about
the pillow cases stained with ketchup
the overwhelming sense of discomfort
those are the beds I like
I like things that are ugly
Like a crying girl
but not the pretty one alone on a bus
crying about some boy from some town
wishing she remembered how it felt before she'd loved
not that kind
I like the kind that are shaken, disheveled
unfinished puzzles beckoning to be solved
but fully aware they came without all the pieces

I like things that are Ugly

You're afraid of the finish line
because if you see it you might have to cross it

here is an anniversary letter
addressed to you
I think ours was last week
chances are this is past due
consider this my vow of affection
for what I write in these next 30 lines
will be my most sincere of words
even if I spoke a billion times

you are not the last thing on my mind
before I go to sleep
or the first thing
when I awake
I do not lust for you like Juliet
your Romeo I'll never be
but Romeo is dead
and I'm as happy as can be

I've loved before
and trust me it's no fun
constant musing about the future
how this one is really "the one"
it's a trial as old as
the woman who's teeth no longer function
love is love is love is...
love is much to do about nothing

and then I found you
with brown eyes and brown hair
simple as the letter k
eyes that looked but didn't stare
maybe you love me
although I hope you don't
maybe you'll think of marriage
although I hope you won't

In Conclusion
I'll bid you adieu
I am not in love with you
and that's what I love most about you
#

And typed them on a page
no filter just complete
sunken rage
no rhyme scheme anymore just lines
one after another
I'm scared I'll never satisfy a woman
not only sexually but intellectually
professionally, physically
I'm afraid I let the right person go
and now they won't come back
I'm scared that we only get one shot at life
and I'm blowing it by typing on a computer in my bed
I'm scared Ill die old
a corpse of unfulfilled potential
instead of a young body filled with it
I'm scared I'm the only that thinks about
these things and the only one
I can talk about these things with
is my therapist who doesn't want to hear
about them anyway
so I tell her that I am happy
I am scared because I don't always feel this way
some days weeks months go by where I don't think about writing
and I swear in that time I'm happier
so what is it about depression that bring my pen to the page
I'm scared that I use poetic metaphors to cloak actual feelings
I'm scared that someone whose opinion I value will read this and think less of me
I'm scared that one day down the road I'll come back to this
for the first time
but I'll close the tab before it opens
and go scroll through twitter or facebook
or instagram
because sometimes it's easier to just not feel for a little bit
I'm scared that I'm waiting for a moment that will never come
I'm scared to go to the gym so I've forced myself to be content with my body
which is fine but it isn't as good
as it could be
and that's all on me
I'm scared that I'm my greatest enemy
and also my greatest friend
and maybe both want me to fail
because sometimes it feels good to let yourself rest on your own shoulder

There. All out.

I like the way your words taste
not nearly copacetic daffodils
but a boisterous bouquet of
letters tied so neatly
so crisply
that I dare not close my ears
even just for a second
because a time without you in my mind
is one I'd rather leave behind

A man placed a rose over a mass grave
and said to me
take all the Evil in the world
and make Art out of it

Melancholy memories make me muse
Perhaps I lost a piece of me when I lost you

And here we all go
staring at screens
trying to distract ourselves
from what it all means

I think that comedy is dead
and I don't say that because I think every funny person
just suddenly is not funny anymore
I think that people don't want to laugh anymore

we want to leer
whether in disgust, or fear, or some sick form of admiration
we want to rage against something
anything as long it promises to stand in our way

we make mountains out of mole hills
in order to spend our time knocking them down
we want somebody to make us cry
not because we want to be sad

because we want to feel like we're still alive
we are so afraid live
that we've become obsessed with dying
we shout deep into the void

hoping, (even if it's slightly) that no echo will return
we want to hate, we want to fear
because those emotions are raw and tangible
and they linger

what is a laugh
if but a minuscule flaw in the system
a seldom respite from the horrid lives we lead
an umbrella for the rain we so desperately want to drown in

It's easy to feel bad for cheating
even if it's only for a moment
every day we are told be angry, mad, upset, vigilant, vindictive
every day we are told
Comedy is dead

I would value you
I know you must have hard that a lot
and have grown accustomed
to it not being true

I know that trust is like a spotter
at the bottom of a ladder
and that you've been climbing Everest
and not the wall to a roof
so the comparison isn't apt
No I don't know anything you
and so my words ring hollower
than an Oak tree on a dry summers day

I would value you
not as price on a tag
but as a bird on a nest
because your presence makes being here
worthwhile
and when you're keen to fly away
please heed my plea that's true
I Promise I would value you

Is the grass still green?
Are the skies still blue?
Will every road I used to take
Slowly lead me back to you?

At a certain point
Your ex ceases to be your ex
And becomes someone you once knew
I know not whether that is good or bad

If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before

like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for

that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)

time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do

Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it

love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it

what good is an art
if one can not master it

face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit

It's 9 p.m. where you are
Not where I am
because you left
I know

I don't think you think about me still
Pacing in the shadow of my windowsill
wondering if I should tell you, I love you still
I want things to change but I don't think they will

Love is not nearly as fragile a thing as time
When the winds of life have come to pass
all we're left with is a participation trophy
and a blurry past

Ocean waves wash over me
I like the stains they leave
Upon my skin that's now paper thin
as the years pass me by

I am suffocated by the thought of losing you
so much so that may I take one last breath
yet I have one more thing to say before I rest

If you really loved me... you would never have left

It's 9 p.m. where you are
Not where I am
because you left
I know

I don't think you think about me still
Pacing in the shadow of my windowsill
wondering if I should tell you, I love you still
I want things to change but I don't think they will

Love is not nearly as fragile a thing as time
When the winds of life have come to pass
all we're left with is a participation trophy
and a blurry past

Ocean waves wash over me
I like the stains they leave
Upon my skin that's now paper thin
as the years pass me by

I am suffocated by the thought of losing you
so much so that may I take one last breath
yet I have one more thing to say before I rest

If you really loved me... you would never have left

If every rose be red
And every violet, blue
Then perhaps every path
Will lead me back to you

It's not that
I didn't know what I had
It's just that
I never thought I'd lose it

I am not a number
I am not 2200
or 3.3
I am not this these things you claim me to be

I am not a number
I am not Candidate #15392701
or Profile 235
I am real... I am alive

I am not a number
I am not 8/10 on a good day
or a 5/10 when I don't care
There's a mind and soul where you believe is bare

I am not a number
I am not what you need me to be
I am everything you wish to be
I am ... infinity

I killed a butterfly today  
then tried to write a poem  
I don’t know why I did it  
It died without a home  
It struck me as compelling  
as I recalled what my parents used to say  
be mindful of your surroundings  
a flap of butterfly wings can change a day  


I thought little of it then  
yet now I obsess as I reminisce  
if a butterfly flap can change so much  
what of the absence of it?  
Have I sealed my fate to infamy  
or paved my way to riches  
but maybe if I **** another?  
my unforeseeable fate switches  


But what’s a butterfly to me?  
it wasn’t much before  
now you expect me to believe  
it holds the key to what’s in store?  
Free will must exist  
at least as long as I believe it to  
foolish of me to think my dead butterfly  
could have some affect on you  


Yet I sit here thinking  
of thoughts I’ve never had  
a liar I would be to tell you  
that I haven’t changed a tad  
It did not have a name  
and I did not have a reason  
yet as I blankly stared down  
I felt as if I had committed treason  


So I sweep away the body  
and leave the room to clear my head  
if my hand’s never clapped  
this butterfly would not be dead  
so be wary of the change you bring  
the waves you choose to make  
that butterfly could have changed a day  
and not believing that was my mistake

If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before

like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for

that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)

time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do

Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it

love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it

what good is an art
if one can not master it

face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit

I am the poorly poured glass of water hovering over the edge
defying god and gravity, philosophy and physics

I don't want to be disingenuous
perhaps using the word disingenuous isn't the best start
I am depressingly self-aware
so much so that it took me 45 minutes to write that line

I wish I was younger
just so I could live with ignorance a bit longer
and let it cradle me like a baby
I now understand why every movie follows the unknowing hero
We all want to relate
like one big game of the emperor's new clothes

I thought I was destined for greatness
to be fair I still do

I've been having a ton of existential crises lately
suppressing each one more than the last
it's like there is a little man inside of me
banging on the glass
begging to be let out
but I don't want to
because he strikes me as an honest little man
and I'm afraid I might not like what he has to say

One time my therapist asked me if I had ever thought about suicide
I don't think that's the right question
I think about it a lot
not for me specifically but others

I don't believe in God
not so much the creator thing
because who knows
but more the life after death part
because if there's truly nothing
if it really is black
then that might be better than the hell some people live in right now
death is better than torture, death is better than the loss of hope

What I'm saying is
maybe I'm afraid the worst thing that will ever happen to me is death
and maybe I'm wrong
but I'm afraid I won't live a life worthy of being lived

This isn't a happy story
I don't think it's even a story at all
It certainly has an end
and by virtue of being told
it has a beginning

It's the middle part that becomes murky
how do you a quantify a human life
the little intricacies that you can't even remember
the butterfly, whose wings
flapped a few too many times
leading me to this

Standing 746 feet above the water

I wonder if it would always end this way
if every fork in the road would eventually curve inward
if every call would remain unanswered
if every love would fade

I think that's the funny thing about objectivity
it exists in isolation

this is my story
or lack thereof

*Jump

Even if we were meant to be
I know you'd skip over me
like apple seeds

I can hear you bellowing from a room that rests just outside of my imagination.
My skin crawls
as the wind quietly whispers
begging me to open the window
so the thoughts that once crowded my head
can slide back into bed with me

Nothing ever hurts as bad as it did the first time
each sip of the bottle is easier than the next
as I slip back into unconsciousness

I can hear the rain
hammering on my roof
relentlessly
again and again and again
wishing that maybe the next drop
will be the one that breaks the camel's back

melancholy memories make me muse
perhaps I lost a piece of me when I lost you
and if everything
God willing
must end up right
than Perhaps it makes sense
that you visited me tonight

I feel the flames
sneaking past the floorboards
devouring my oxygen
encapsulating my space
occupying my attention

When the past comes knocking on your door
remind it why
it doesn't have a place in your home