Fog
only hides
the external
from the external:

A prehensile lighthouse
never found
anyone worth finding.

so
yes my dear
the night is
dark

In vain,
I searched my apartment
instantly
upon your departure.
My anxious eyes
and prehensile hands
hoping
and searching for a forgotten item,
a trace of your presence:

an old shirt,
a half-finished book,
even a bobby pin.

Until I gave up,
I found
nothing.
Retiring to my bed, however
afforded me the greatest find
imaginable,

my temporal security complete:
your scent lingers still in my sheets.

The days have past when new formulas were still being invented/discovered. "There is nothing new under the sun." Existence is non-specific to me. How disturbing! How selfish! I have lived countless lives before and will continue to live the lives of many others. At least, what I imagine could be the lives of other people. The experiences I have felt are copies. The words falling out of my mouth, just plagiarism. These thoughts have been thought; these colors have been worn. What is a "personality" but a slightly interesting combination of recycled qualities and dispositions (hooked unwillingly into the cheek of said victim)? The streets I have walked are public. This book has already been read.
In this realization, unconscious or unnecessary, we continue to strive for our individual goal (OUR individual goal): the goal of uncovering some new piece with which to happily accessorize the vast, possibly endless, puzzle which we call our repertoire, OUR repertoire.

Let me encapsulate my evening for those less informed:

I see everything, know everything
what a burden! what distraught!
Perceiving my dream is better than
conceiving my dream.
Which is easier?

Forever searching, for ever failing,
forever falling, for endless trailinggggggggg
If my mind is a shelter then my thoughts aren't home
If my poems are just words, let my ambitions roam

I forgot you were here and called out your name
The echo found me empty
The echo knows my name

Once upon a time, I rambled drunk
Once upon a line, I forgot, stumped
My parents are too gone,
my books are too long,
when will I learn to rise at dawn?

ashamed, i am:
ashamed alone.
without other bricks,
i can build no home

immaculately guilt-free is the bonded group.
never singular, always plural,
that's the definition of the group.

distinction as a him, a her,
not them
makes me anxiously wrought
with the selfish thought
of a word not licensed, spoken

ashamed, i am
because 'i' is not only first person,
but singular:
a dreaded, useless version
of human in humanity

Win twice for the girl and once for the fight
Close sunglasses for curtains et vite pro night
Born thrice for the breath yet none that I like
so much as your glow
the sun to my light.

Never did feel the absence so near
When even fog breaks,
clouds part,
skies clear
Like a pedal in the snow
frozen with fear
my words flounder twice, then wholly disappear

Can you hear me breathing
Can you hear me sighing
Can you hear me feeling?
Can't you tell I'm dying?

Break the window,
fake the claim,
run away and,
start the game.

Call the cops,
take my name,
look me in the eye,
and win the game.

Smoke will never help forget,
but, taken back a single lapse,
can make a mist, turn you black
rewrite the story: that and that.

I wrote a letter to you today;
burned it and my thoughts away.
I coughed and coughed and stole the rain,
a few more and I'll win the game

Coughed again, one more time
stole the clothes all strewn the floor,
stole the clothes, yours and mine
a little less now, for a little more.

Try and try
to play the game
of memory
to lose the pain.

Bring it back.
Never now.
Never then.
Never how?

Took one more for just-in-case.
Took one more and forgot the place
we met, we kissed, we fought our first
we laughed, we cried, we saw it burst.

Forget the burst, it's the game.
The smiles, the tears: both are pain.
And so I cough again and smile
and make it feel a long long while

Memory is a game
I lost
long ago.

So tell me
your
story,
your tale of
woe.

"A face
unmatched
with any name;
a scent of
years
in history;
a scene
I once
consumed with eyes,
a scene fades in,
then
slowly dies."

Memory is
a game
that
no one wins.
And everyone loses,
loses
in time.

I kissed a woman today
for nine hours.

It felt
like nine seconds.

Who knew a bandage
could feel this
good
being ripped off?

I smiled at the moon
for the first
time
in two months.

Laughter led to sleep.
Lips led to hips.

I read her like a book,
and highlighted
all the best parts
for later.

When will I sleep again?
Why do I dream of Them?
Why can I feel Their grin?
Bless Them,
for They have sinned.

To an Alice that could've been: I toy with the idea of future memories, contingent to past moments. Let's pretend it fades in from white. Now, there she is, summer dress flopping up and down on the trampoline like the opening and closing of a sunflower umbrella. She is a chronic smiler. And when her mouth isn't smiling, you can bet her eyes surely are. Or maybe her 4-year-old dimples. Anyhow, you can always be sure to find it buried in some characteristic of that face so round from laughing and so familiar to her mother. She charms, she brings joy, she shows the love of love. She makes the moon shine and my sun rise.

To a Dakota that could've been: The fading once again comes to clarity. There he is. In some statement of fashion not yet fit for an eighth grader. He doesn't care. He would if his father didn't wear it. Look at him: screaming at his mom for space, for some angsty, undefined sense of freedom and individuality. He's inherited more than the tie clip.

To a Becca that could've been: You always were and always will be. There is no fading for you, only a dramatic finish: the curtains meet in the middle and sway for a few seconds while the audience continues to clap, continues to cry, continues to wait for another Act. There is doubt to whether or not the lights will return or whether the curtains will open again, accompanied by such fanfare as to be sublime.

To a Darko that could've been: Don't wait for me, please. You can truly be fulfilled without me in your life. Don't wait to grow your hair out. Don't wait to try acid for the first time. I won't be there to hold your hand, I won't be there to physically hurt you when you make me feel worthless as a parent, and I surely won't be there when you see your mom cry for the first time. You'll cry too. And I'll know why.

Make me proud, Dakota.
Make me smile, Alice.
Make me remember, Becca.

Make her happy, Darko.

Explain to me,
mother,
why it is that
I can breathe
easier with his hole in my chest?

It is about
time
that I realize
I've done this
to
myself.

It is about
time
that I realize
I
should give up.

The waves crash against my thighs.
The waves crash against my pelvis.
The waves crash against my stomach.
The waves crash against my chest.
H
hA
haR
harD
hardE
hardeR
softeR
softE
sofT
soF
sO
so what? so what if I drown?

Let the reaper eat my stomach contents.
Let Him drink my spinal fluid;
let it trickle down his fleshless chin.

Recycle my eyes so that I may
see.
Recycle my heart so that I may
smile.
Recycle my brain so that I may

forget.

Nothing's funny when you're bleeding.

They have asked me why.
And so I put my knuckles to my chin, my elbow to the hand-carved table, and try to remember how to speak to another human.
I say,

for the trees have no eyes
the wolves have no brows
the stars just but glimmer
the moon only bows

yes, the rocks do not hate
and bugs will plan not
and i can't quite recall
a butterfly ever shot

my horse does not cry
the river carries whim
while birds cannot judge
especially Him

well, the sun only loves
and the music is mine
forever revolving
forever in time

I say,
society gathers in the meadows out there
so why drown in busy despair
a life reflecting not a mirror, but
an image that truly does not care

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.

I've finally
realized
that healing
is a lot like
learning to pretend.

Schedules
are busy,
not people.

The days will come and the years will go.
Yes, time does fly, but it does not grow.
It seems to die, to wither away.
What once was a week is now just a day.
A month goes by and feels like an hour;
even the years have lost their power.
Yet I no longer sit and wonder how,
for, as you know, I'm used to it now.

A drink takes ahold, a lonely Tuesday.
Let slip a few more on "let's forget Wednesday."
Ah! My fridge is low as my self-esteem
dips even lower: no medicine.
The tolerance seems to build up quick.
Friday - twice as much to cure the sick.
It's not just beer to the numbing-seeker;
it's, like the week, just gotten weaker.

Your eyes once lit up like golden sunsets
on those first dates when we first met.
But, to me, your eyes now are nothing.
Do we need to shed clothes just to feel something?
I remember, before our love inflated,
a kiss was a fortune, not over-rated.
Yet now, it takes so much more to feel
a feeling once achieved so quick, surreal.

What does it mean, this feral pounding?
This feeling of imploding?
Am I dying?
Am I living?
Is this just the beginning?

A sense of falling, falling off
my eyes have now caved in
Falling up
Where is time?
No, it can wait for us.

Nature speaks, a gentle whisper.
She knows what I am doing.
Can they tell?
Do they know?
Paranoia grasps me further

Another cap? Another stem?
Do I reason just like them?
Questions here,
answers there:
ignore my existential whim

Jumping round, up and down
feel the hole inside my chest
May it come?
May it go?
Could I focus just a sec?

Now laughing hard, as I did
when my feet my feet were half this size,
(what's my age?
what's my height?)
Was my grandma really right?

Think of friends, think of past.
It all really goes too quick.
Floating. Soaring.
This is NOW!
Can I pretend I'm fine again?

Coming down, but melting still...
Why does that tree look mad at me?
The contraction
of refraction,
so just giggle, look, and Be.

I once was a soft egg.
I once feared my self.
The time to please has now come again.
Don now your laurel tag,
your home inside the shelf.

I once grew ears of joy.
I once cried to smiles.
Now when the monsters come again,
it won't be to a boy
but a stone rolled miles and miles.

I once took happy pictures.
I once remembered you.
The chance has to ash now gone,
a past held by fixtures
from dusk to this high noon.

I once felt strong,
a memory to cherish.
I once held together
with astounding marriage.
I once gave you faces
for you alone, my dear.
I once grew naivete,
a crop declined this year.

It should go without saying
that I go without paying
any attention to you

Your life is my strife,
existence a pun,
and makes you look like a fool.

So you eat lots of shrooms
and listen to Tool...
what do you think that makes you?

When deep is skin-deep,
and piercings eat you,
the tattoos will only accrue

To "tell your story,"
and Whaddup, homie?
until death parts you

From the *** you don't get
and the lies you believe
to sleep at night, ****** and blue

If you were a book,
there'd be lots of pictures
and captions that just read "Who?"

with a  cover to judge
and be pretty true
an accurate description of you.