Empty, drowning
all alone.
It waits to forget,
if just at home.

Not leaving,
not going, not staying away.
Just letting my demon play.

It rips at me, I **** and fall
down to the sheets again.
Becomes my prison mentally, in this mattress
you once have been.

This bed belongs to you, my love,
this bed belongs to you.

A kick to the head, as good
as dead.
Or just enough to breathe.
My wait is room enough to see the pain you inflicted me.
My weight is why it hurts to breathe, a solution so deceived.

This bed belongs to you, my love,
this bed belongs to you.

Those demons, I know,
I guess they know me, like you once claimed so proud.
The trivial things like tastes and clothes have made me hate the day.
This dreaded thing between my legs is not me anyway.

And like the Moon, I followed you, my Sun: essential me.
Honest to the very marrow, hopefully you'll be,
like my ear, and brain alike, a foolish, selfish deed.
I once lied next to you, my Sun
I once so followed you.

This bed belongs to you, my love,
this bed belongs to you.

Everything is black and white.
You've taken the contrast too.
I want the color of your face back.
The other day on campus, I thought I saw it.
I watch for you always and see you every place:
in the back of my heart, in the corner of my eye.

These are the weak moments.
In times like these, every room is a waiting room.
I'm waiting,
waiting for that text which reads "from Lynsey my Love,"
waiting to smile again,
waiting for you to come back,
waiting to finish our lives.

Can you hear me breathing from there?
Can you see the house we were supposed to live in?
the little, single-story, vine-draped one that I walk past everyday.
I can see the house we were supposed to live in.

How can a world console me that was once consumed by you?
This feels like the end, though they say its the beginning.
They say there's other fish in the sea.
I'm just having problems with the temptation to jump in after.

I just feel like destroying something beautiful,
because something beautiful destroyed me.

I love you

I loved. I did but never said. Words were petty, I said. She never knew.
This is obvious, but not technically contact. This is the plea.

This is for you. Sold out for a good reputation, like all the others, I am condemned to guiltful struggle. There is no magic here, so no redemption.

Can you taste the skism? Can you sense the hurt? My heart is bleeding into the sink, onto the metal, onto my fault.

I was waiting to tell you. To tell you I love you, with my entire existential. It was for you. For your laugh, for your affection, for your smile. If a day went by wherein I didn't make you laugh, it was a bad day, a bad, bad day. You are my success, the investment in hope.

I was waiting to tell you on our one year anniversery. I do believe in love. I've seen it now. I've touched it with the tips of my fingernails and sailed across it until the little hairs stood up for more.

This isn't a guilt trip. At least, not for you. Let's keep the poem short and our gaze long. But, too late. I loved you. I never told you. You told me.

Words can be broken. So can hearts.

[enter insomnia]

A leap, a step, just enough,
to feel the bounce beneath my toes.
It responds will glee and overdue
love for the angled roads.

Shifting shoes with wiggling feet,
rolling, rolling. Onward we fly.
To our deaths? To heaven, you think?
No! Just for the ride!

Swimming through the feral air,
cracks biting at your wheels,
the fear of tumbling off again
and breaking both your heels.

I wouldn't trade it for the Earth,
a girl, or friendly drug,
for this board is my lover.
Did I just eat a bug?

The wind runs past, molests my hair,
a playful game I know.
Forget your life and troubles now
and let your balance hold.

One last carve before the bottom
where the sidewalk ends,
the trucks bend gymnastically
the rubber digs deep in.

Lean back and brace the board,
it treats you well, you know.
Hear the friction sound so sweet,
and don't forget to

****!
ah ****!
my ******* wrist, *******!! it's totally broken.

did that girl see?

The shakes came back, I knew they would.
Tell me, mother, tell me I'm good.
Sometimes I think my back might buckle
from this near-dead weight I have not left.

I take it with me from birth to death,
just to see if I've gotten stronger,
just to see if it's left.

The burden keeps me up at night.
It is the reason for this fight
against myself or a younger me,
someone else's soul, I hope.

Is this my necklace made of rope?
Or an illusion just to create
a justification, a way to cope.

Sin takes hold, I knew it would.
What was the word? Righteous? Good?
Maybe I should've paid more attention
to the speech, not the speaker.

Faith has left and made me weaker.
The only magical transform.
But I'm not magic, nor a messiah,
just a sinner, sunken deeper.

I have lost something
sacred.

It is still alive out there,
in the infinity
of objects untenable
and unforgettable.

I thought
I heard it call my name
last night
as my eyelids finally found each other.

This absence knows me too well.

It won't let me
take my mind
off my mind.

If I could only measure
like my strength, then
I would know who
I really am;
and, I suppose, sleep
even less.

Alas, I've found
that
I can't wander
as easily as my mind.

I wish to float
away
from gravity
and other discussions just as grave.

How can I
keep my enemies
closer
than this?

A book once said
that
self-reproach is a
dangerous
thing.

I never read that book,
but
it surely read
me.