I cannot wait until the thought of you
only awakens moths in a dusty place
and nothing close to the tremors you leave in your wake,
today.
I cannot wait until I see your trace,
and don't see your face.
and when I hear the echoes of a most familiar place,
I won't shake.
I won't feel the quake.
I'll smile and look onto sacred vows I gave myself,
I won't let myself go.
I'm important for just anyone else to hold.
You could not come two feet within my distance,
not just for wisdom, though the bounty for your fists
are worth two million.
And the rest of you is priceless.
But I've lost interest in the hunt.
I take my bow and shun all that chase a runt,
a half-man,
a troll
like you.
You had the appearance of a king,
with a love that had skewed
and a brain that renewed
thoughts that made you brood,
on every individual man that had came in your place before
you never felt that you evened the score,
until you cheated.
And now here you are,
speaking to me as if you were defeated.
Enjoy her.
Good night.
Stop wishing for me.
You only ask when she's not enough.
I'm just done with this stuff.
It's bland.
It's done.
Out of sight.
Good night.

When she told me- I didn't know how to respond.
Ask questions. Learn more. Be proactive.
I felt my lips move, speaking, asking, pretending I knew
what I was really saying.
It was as if I didn't want to her to get off the phone.
I was scared.
It was odd that she didn't sound comforting.
Is she delivering a prediction of a death sentence?
What is the proper response to that?
I kept asking her what it all meant.
So vague and indiscernible.
She told me to take care of myself.
I guess I'm not doing that already?
Who do I talk to after this?
I don't want pity or concern.
I just want feeling
like my stomach acid is proceeding
to consume every other internal *****
I could ever muster keeping
to go away.
I know I shouldn't worry.
There are people out there without limbs.
Worrying wallflower.
Worrying won't wish wondering away.
Let me deflect.
I can write about it and pretend
that I never did want to live past ten.

We spent Friday nights together,
and lately they haven't been amazing, no,
but god, do I miss your breathing next to me,
your soft skin, the sun spots on your face,
illuminated by the lights outside your place.
The silhouette of your sleep.
It always got me to close my eyes.
I miss it bad on nights like these when I can't do just that.
Our nights had become later, jaded by quarrels of the day,
I wanted so badly to be kissed by you in ourdarkness
held close and reminded of my worth
but we were both too tired too oblige
too angry to see that what we needed more than anything was each other
not the parties, **** and drinks,
not the glow of our cellphones or the flash of our new clothes.
I cry more often lately,
than I have in long long time.
Back to my old ways, I suppose.
Mourning the loss of what was good.
I miss what we could have been always
but only were for a few nights at a time.
I forget the sting to lament what felt right.
I turn my wet pillows over and keep trying to sleep.
I don't think you'll ever know how much I weep.
Why couldn't we?

My body won't allow me to feel for you anymore.
Though the warmth of your blanket is comforting-
it's not enough when the cavity in my chest
is empty.
When we're not together it's filled with promise,
and while it's easy to see that I miss you,
I don't miss the absence of my heart
and its presence in your palm.
I loved you too much and it's a problem- I know.
Because it isn't a love you can reciprocate.
So with each day apart, I feel the blood in my veins,
and I try to keep breathing for myself.
And to those grieving with a similar fate,
I know you've heard it before- it's not easy but in time
I'm trying to grow out as far as you did and then some,
for good measure.
I used to feel safe in your arms,
but I feel the cold weather- more when we're together
than when we're apart.
And all of my mittens are worn and my fingers
can only clutch my heart for warmth-
so no I can't leave it at your house anymore
it's no longer the furnace you leave in the corner
while you sit in your blizzard, stoic, unapproachable.
It's not to keep someone new alive.
But I've got this numb skin that needs protection
from the storms you survive.

I stare at a glowing window while I hear
the street sweepers chiming down the street
for the week night I've lost count of.
Body warmth and sleep cuddles aren't around,
to help me want to close my eyes tonight.
It's 3 AM on Monday and my lover's in his own
waking in a few hours to the glow
and I still don't want to wink.
Fixated on past experiences.
This is just never the time to be
appreciating everything, is it?
Too late to get anything good down,
Too early write anything off.

Call me exotic
and get the simple and plain
slapped out of your face

I try to spend my time outside of myself
asking questions, learning lives,
anything that suppresses the memories.
The nagging voice reminding me.
It's not as safe as the world I live in.
But I'm aware that my mind
is expansive like Earth,
cluttered in some spots,
empty in others,
peaceful in the woods,
with battlecries in the cities.
Often misinterpreted-
full of the ocean and different versions
of everyone I know.
When the demons crawl up the ropes
I let them live in doodles
like ancient scrolls.
I send their resilience
to my dr. scholl's.
I try to think of the zen garden
behind where I work,
and that each concern
each worry
each blessing
are pebbles amongst captive nature.
And I am a bonsai thriving in it.
It just feels better to smile about that.

Water
running through the faucet,
can be
soothing
or
unsettling,
depending on how much is
running through the faucet.

No, I am an immortal,
now that I desire death.

too much of anything is a bad thing-
when I told her of how my teenage cousin
touched me when I was three,
a Buddhist monk with that mantra
squeezed my hand gently.
she saw the glow
overflowing in my eyes
and nodded, as the minutes rolled by
the overcast skies in her gaze
were relieving.
they reminded me that
the restraints are only
as strong as I resist,
so my hands pried
themselves from promise
and my fingers reached
the wisdom clouds above us.
they drew the rain
and let the glowing flood
be just fine.

To my left
there is my lover.
To my right
I see my sister.
In front of me
there's uncertain mist.
Trailing me,
feelings persist.
I'm encircled by
so many souls,
but still I feel all alone.
Am I selfish?
To want more?
To fill the space
I've become?
Look to the light
and I see nothing.
Search for pictures
and get only words.
Lonely words.

I listen to the whirr,
the white noise of the air conditioner,
the occasional thumps from upstairs,
the shifting of their chairs,
my scratching pen, mark after mark
and the mood music soft and dark
spilling out of the hidden speakers.
I'm staring at my slipped off sneakers
sitting stuck in the silence of a block,
I think of what could get me to talk.
Surrendering to what I don't like to share,
Details I would rather spare,
watching cartoons and salty bets,
bourbon and drunken cigarettes,
mostly the usual vices,
letting people to their devices.
Ever really been somewhere,
but never gone inside?
There I go, breaking the rhyme.
They kept knocking,
so I let them sit in the lobby,
I wonder if they'll leave,
if I tell them about my hobbies.
I keep my mouth shut and my doors locked,
and sip slow at my bulleit on the rocks,
I let the daze set in, and the movement of pen
do the talking,
The lights too dim,
the volumes too high,
I don't hear them knocking.
I stare at my empty glass,
at the bottom a warm stone,
I don't think I'll ever feel this alone.
I keep holding on to my only strength.
Keeping everyone new at arms length.
with only my liver left to thank.

I can show you exactly what it feels like
to miss someone-
I can show you the meaning of a real
tender love- unconditional,
and give you all of it in an analogy
about watering plants or something,
and pray that you'll listen for a second
and learn about me,
but sweetheart,
expectations are the vapors that escape my whispers,
and they can't be seen
as much I can't be heard,
and I know they won't be remembered
when I blow them in your face,
seductively or not.
I know you know how to play a ***** game.
And while I'll try my hardest,
my darndest to play it better-
I know what it requires.
I know you have it and I don't, and if I were to,
I wouldn't be your sweetheart, would I now?
No, I wouldn't be me-
and every time I realize how much power
I give that stellar smile of yours,
sweetheart,
it doesn't seem to show up.
I know when it shows up, though, because it always does.
It shows up when I've lost hope,
and I'm feeling flighty, lost, and ready to beg-
when I'm terrified it'll never show up again,
it shows up,
and I feel saved.
But tonight, it's going to play differently,
sweetheart.
And I know you'll chop this up nice and fine,
to be something you're proud of me about,
because you know,
I'm just your little sweetheart,
but tonight,
I'm going make something out of this empty I feel
when you're not around.
I'm going fill it up with my stellar smile,
and show myself the meaning of a real
tender love-unconditional.
I'm going to take the loneliness that fills me,
break it up on this piece,
and smoke it away
while learning my life is better,
sweetheart,
without playing your games.

I didn't know a broken heart,
until the day I realized I could never make you as happy
as she once did.
And in that very moment,
every second where I made you look away,
crushed every second where I held your gaze.
My childish attempts to make you love me,
need me,
at least want me,
seemed to only push you further.
I wonder
how much it took for her?
How many times you wound yourself around her wrist
was it even a better kiss?
There goes my growing confidence,
along with the bracelets you've left on the floor
gifts gone amiss.
I don't know if I am enough.
Fear is all I feel through this love.

we are forever rendering what it means to be alone.
to see the solid sun in the distance going down, the colors,
the way the branches of the trees creep into the horizon,
like black veins around pearly blue eyes- the sky
its something we all describe,
in solitude.
it's been done by each of us every time we look up.
it is the reminder that we ought to be fond of ourselves.
that we are all the same, an those of us
who feel the pangs of loneliness need to fill the space
with the pleasure of quietude.

He tried to defend you.
Said it was her idea-
somehow that made me feel
somehow that made me realize
how much of a **** you really were.
The temptation was too great-
99% sure it was her idea, he said.
Empathize, *****.
That's what I saw in those off-sides lines.
Before, I was blinded by the idea-
that her level of betrayal was stronger than yours.
That's saddening.
Considering how we were supposed to fit together
like puzzle pieces-
and my true loyalty could not be matched,
with your jagged edges of uncertainty.
**** that ****, dude.
You've got me ****** up.
I loved, and I lost.
It's okay now, I'm picking up the pieces
you decided to apologize for and leave
quickly out the door.
Escape to her empty *****.
It won't ever feel as warm and comforting,
I promise.
If there's one thing that'll stay true-
it'll be the memory of how I loved you.

I can't get through any other way.
My last pen running out of ink is a thousand times worse
than my throat being too hoarse to scream,
or duct tape plastered over my lips.
Because asking "What?" with my voice never gave me a real answer.
Which should be expected, I guess, because "What?" is not a real question.
I do it to ask myself if I am wrong.
I do it to hug myself even if I am.
Or if I have been wronged,
and I need to accept insincere or
unsaid apologies.
I write because the only place I really feel welcome,
Is in between ink and paper.
You'll find me there,
Writing.

We see words lined up pretty,
spelling out sorrow.
Like beautiful crying ladies
we want to help
but also want to touch.
I never know when or how
to express that I am here for a poet.
Love, is it ever just a poem to you?
Or do you actually mean to slit your wrists?
Is writing the only way you escape?
Should I stop and whisper empathy
or should we just continue
to admire
each other's talent?

I could write a hundred poems,
each one could paint a horrid picture of you.
But not one could make these feelings
disappear.
And you know what?
That ******* *****.
I'll just be a slave.
not to you-
but to time.
Waiting for this to disappear.
I hope you see this and realize something.
Some sort of direction-
be it to leave or to make amends.
I keep smiling and trying to love.
Unconditionally.
Like I've been- all this time.
But all I do is make a fool of myself.
Three times.
Shame on me.

Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when you haven't invited me?
You float declarative plans in the air,
and I'm left to jump and catch them, hungrily,
eagerly in a craze to see you, to feel you,
to hug my thighs to your waist desperately.
If I do so, I'm left waiting for my plea to be seen.
Waiting for you to be clean.
Waiting with no self esteem.
But this is our love.
And I will oblige, and not be stubborn
like you call me.
I will succumb to your efforts to be "cool
calm and collected," and unaffected by me.
Is that not it? Is it because you fear of rejection?
You tell me you don't know how to ask for my companionship.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
It's not like I'm not your lady, and you, not my man.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when the air is a bitter cake around us?
Our comfort is a milk we squeezed from my *****,
and now I've only drips that your sighs of frustration
soak up every time I express my desires.
I've learned to swallow my words,
because I am lady, and not mama or baby, but the trauma
from the near past has made me wary.
No, I do not want to wait indefinitely for your ideas to play out.
For you to accept my plea to come with you.
I rather know when to be ready, so I can be myself,
and not be your beg-to-come pet.
Does it bother you that I want to be treated with respect?
Or from you, is that too much to expect?
Am I too much, is this too much, what is too much in your head?
Too many questions, to you, enough is said.
You treat me with silence, and I treat you in bed.
Whose anger is healthier? I don't know either.
But lets start with questions we can both answer.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
Yes,
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me, love, so I can come with you.

I wonder if anyone listens,
but it doesn't really matter.

I've eaten my sickness
and I've no room for seconds.

Waiting for the painkillers to kick in
I remember writhing in my sheets like it were the ocean
in my head pulling me every which way,
while I reached for pillows and bottled water
and threw myself on to my dusty carpeting.
The heat kept me **** and sticky with vick's,
until they stopped cranking it and
I pulled on a shirt and took a **** 6 times last night.
I did not want to turn on the lights,
and decided the spiders crawling on the walls
were probably too repulsed with my runny nose
to bother climbing my legs anyway.
I needed the dark- my eyes sat in my head
like two full trash cans, that shut and had enough
from the dreams I procured in sickness and nyquil.

When I saw you,
I said, "I'll make him fall in love with me."
But I fell instead.
Weak- in your arms.
Today, you say you wish you could erase this.
The writing is too dark and dense.
There will always be outlines,
to the pits you never want to step into
again.
But I still want to remember them.
Because I fell instead.

I'm scared to numbness,
clutching
my moral compass,
as the only weight
that keeps me from
blasting
off this cruel crust
of our planet.
**** it.
There was a time
my feet only knew to fly
in the right direction.

Give me some wine
So that I am not afraid.

I tried writing about you before, but looking at it now.
It was trite.
And cheap.
And sympathy seeking.
Like the very spoiled rotten child I accused you of
accusing me of.
But the truth is- you haven't said much to me about anything- for a long time.
And I just miss our conversations.
And I really do try, sometimes-
but there is this hesitation.
We're different beings but still the same.
You're upset the lady downstairs is being beaten again-
in a panic you call the cops and
mom's head is going to have a baby of worry
if we get involved.
But you don't care. You care about the noises
of the kid beating his mother again.
So you call- and for a moment I'm **** proud.
But you can't articulate your words right on the phone.
You exaggerate out of excitement.
I get frustrated and I grab it from you.
Why do we kids treat our parents so sourly?
These people that we came from,
I never would dare yell at stranger,
or even a friend,
the way I do my dad.
And its not that you deserve better treatment,
because we all have had issues.
You've treated me pretty ****** before.
I've did you as well.
I wonder if there's a way...
we could both have a beer.
But I guess I'll keep wondering,
because I wouldn't be a good Indian daughter, then.
And maybe you wouldn't be a good Indian father, either.
But if we could just be without these conventions
for a day.
an hour.
a moment.
a minute.
a second.
I'd tell you
you're pretty **** cool, dad.

I want her again.
She's the rush that always hit you first, and made you less wary.
Takes any edge of yours that cut me, off clean.
Gives you no reason to be mean.

I want her again.
She dampens me quicker
than you could think you're not enough without trying.
Goads you into wanton wanting.

I want her again.
She pulled us closer together and then made us grateful.
You claimed she was synthetic,
but to me, she was my love undressed, tenfold.

I want her again.
She may have been fueled by chemicals,
but pulled your guard down for a little.
Just long enough, for my magic to work.

I want her again.
She set me free in your eyes.
But mostly
because she let you want me.

i hear the lady in french- but cannot listen.
my heart is beating slowly. the fear has seeped in.
the snow falls steady- we’ll be snowed in,
busting secrets, let’s not keep them.
let’s not keep them.

stumble into freshman notebooks.
discover nothing fresh or ripe.
but something stewing, something rotten.
something worth it- worth some talking.
now i’m laughing.

your uninspired, murmured sleep.
my tapping toes, so off-beat.
teach me rhythm, i lose it fast.
forgot how to flirt and picked up class,
something worth it- let’s not keep it.

Those hipster blogs never held your attention,
always more interested in what your idols had to say.
It was still nice when they received some recognition.
Every musician who played the lady well, deserved some shine.
But you are just a casual, and no way could you pick up an instrument.
You say you don't know her too well.
Did you ever scour the web for what is considered the newest indie hit just to learn her better,
were you The American Listener?
You couldn't be.
Critics rarely suited your taste.
You knew what you liked in her,
you didn't need affirmation.
Applying what little you've retained from the musicians you knew,
and the thousands of intricate melodies you've managed to scratch the surface with.
But still, you don't know her.
You don't know her but you love her don't you?
You put a note on your fourth finger without knowing who she was, didn't you?
She made you wanna ***** dance when no one was looking
And sometimes when someone was.
She made you feel like you could sleep again.
She made you feel like whatever you were doing wasn't too bad after all.
You skipped seeing her when you were feeling down,
you are emotional
And didn't need her sad voice to wallow,
you sang it to yourself and forgot
she was living inside you anyway.

Sit on the couch,
where comfort lies.
Watch the light leak in true,
past the gathered shades.
Hold hands with quiet,
the untouched acoustic
you don't know how to play.
That's alright.
Don't
stop
writing.
Listen to the hollow sound
of distant drivers speeding off.
Play with your fingers,
that fumble with your pen.
Draw circles around your favorite,
lines and alliterations and
spell your name differently.
That one's cool.
Don't
stop
writing.
Forget yesterday's whispers,
that became unclear.
Cut last nights losses,
your hands are still here.
Revere the reminder that
morning solitude does not
have to be sad.
Don't
stop
writing.

It was softness spun around in candy floss,
but sickly sweet and now they're craving from the loss.
Their fingers are sticky; their lips pulled apart.
Oh, please Candy, don't let them in your heart.

i used to know a lot of people.
life apparently does you like that
but there was one
i came to know
in school
this girl that seemed
spectacular.
everything about her screamed...
well, everything about her screamed.
she was like an idol
i aspired to be
just like her
command a crowd like she did-
but i had my limits
and she had none
she never feared to be loud
and wild and free
like a mad horse
in a field of grassy daylight.
but people aren't horses
and nighttime always
comes to claim us.
and it's easy to see differences
when you're younger.
i look at the same girl today-
and i worry.
she seems to have lost
what little sanity she has left
she pulls her hair
chases false love
forgets pain in bottles
scolds others for life
everything about her screams...
well, everything about her screams
****** ******
i look in the mirror
and hold myself close
i could have been her,
i could still become her.
but there is still time-
to continue
to be
me
and know some better people.

When you live inside the hole,
your fingernails are short and your feet are flat.
The climb is only as high as you let your gaze rise.
The meager buckets of rations fill you until you wait for them.
No longer do you wait for Clarise.
You see his face that once brought you fear of captivity,
But now it only brings you utmost desire.
Your world is the hole and **** because you're limbs are sore and ripped.
When is the next time you see him again?

"Go write a poem."
They tell me to pour my emotions out of the conversation,
and into a container they can silently curse and admire.
I'll gladly oblige their feeble minds
because after all, I'm only writing a poem.

"Go write a poem."
They tell me with a smile as if it should sting
because they believe poetry is fruitless and less fulfilling
than the insults they try to shoot like arrows
but why is it that they always seem to miss the mark?

"Go write a poem."
They are just so much better than the silence they receive,
they say, "It is what it is, so go do what you do and make art out of it,"
my brain explodes with the roars of lions, sirens, wrecking *****, marching bands,
because poets understand that it never just is what it is.

"Go write a poem."
Because we poets are angsty souls who cannot express
thoughts with words out loud- and stand up for ourselves,
we lack tact and function beyond writ and stage,
but what they fail to realize that a poet is never just a poet.

We are the creators of their entertainment (Shakespeare)
We are the innovators that fuel the beginnings of artistic thought (Rilke)
We are the warriors that fight for their civil rights (Angelou)
We are the martyrs that immortalize originality (Wilde)
We are the ones who make those powerful statements that those folks love to quote and label their photos with-
so the next time they tell me
"Go write a poem."
I'll make sure they hear the explosion.

I realize I read many,
but few speak to me.

No updates, we live private lives.
You left this town and all that I gave you in a pile.
Haven't heard your voice in some time.
Probably muffled with your brandname smile.
Photographs pick perfect poses.
You seem to have everything you've meant to own.
You got a new home with a new girl,
and even a dog like you've always wanted.
But do you even touch your keys?
Ever exclusive, babe, do you still make music?

i caught myself
before i caught a bad case of you
staining my sheets and making me believe
you meant when you said
i was your favorite person right now.
such a loud and pointless thought,
drenched in impermanence
lacking the resonance
that a favorite should hold
so i place you on mute,
to dull the sting of not being responded to.
i look towards the weekend,
where i'll probably miss the way you look at me,
but not the way my wallet drains a little
and the way we stumble drunkenly up my stairs
you- perfectly complacent,
i- nervous as hell that the nosy neighbors
might loosen lips to my crazy family.
i'll probably miss the way you feel within,
but not the way you're comatose in sin.
apathy is so last year,
but i won't expect you to remember
that i was your favorite right now.
but you were my favorite never.

I'm not worried about missing you.
There are others worth kissing, too;
people who want me more than you ever did
or know how to show me I'm not a kid.
They'll stay in spaces that you once laid,
I'll save their faces so yours can fade.
I'll take it easy, since you're gone.
Left before it could be dawn.
I know you've got another one.
She's not me, but I know it's done.
She can't love you, like I had.
I hope you love her just as bad.
Just as bad.
I'm just so sad.
But can't be mad at that.

I read my poems over and over,
become convinced that my heart is bipolar.
Find me laid out on the four corners
my limbs in each state-
picking a new place
to escape you and my fate.
But if you were to go- you'd probably
get a phone call from New York
saying you just missed the funeral.

I want to say you've left me all broken into jagged pieces,
that luckily everyone seems to want to pick up,
but they're sharp, dude.
I'm nervous.
I've been cut so far,
before the glass was broken.
I can only wonder-
I can be soft-spoken.
I'll try for  moments,
in which I'm grateful I'm not alone.
But I flip through your new pictures,
with the girl you said not to worry about,
I scurry about
memes in hand, I don't need a man,
I've buried the doubt.
I'm edgy.
I try my best to keep myself from writing my own elegy
But I know I want you to read this,
it isn't the best poetry.
It's just what I wish I could impart to you,
after keying your car and using your tooth brush
to clean my dogs *******.


deuces
*******, you abusive piece of crap.
I've contemplated messaging your new lady,
Out of the fear that just maybe
you'd grab her by the neck too,
and assume she liked being treated like ****.

The sea of fans churn to your voice sounds.
I am the part in the song where it strains,
to hit the note that makes the ladies swoon.
Over the moon, I float,
swishing your lyrical lies in my mouth.
I don't see a thing but the blackness,
and you, the star.
And I can't reach you,
but I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.
The music is only a street we run on,
our feet pounding against pavement
like a war drum.
And I feel your sprints in my chest,
you're heaving.
But I can't reach you,
and I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.

Cursed questionable platform,
but at least I know you're awake.

The things you say linger in my head a bit longer than they should.
I remind myself that those echoes should be taken with a grain,
and cynicism will keep my resolve alive.
I tell you I don't believe you when you say you've missed me,
while I'm stifling the excitement inside.
You're pleading when you ask if I am leaving you
and I put your mind to ease, even though all you can do is sleep.
You say you want me to stay but your offerings are modest-
lazy yet earnest, you kiss my forehead and doze off again.
You approach everything in life about the same-
except those of which don't seem to work the way you want.
Should I disappear for a while?
I worry I might be replaced.
I'm not quite good at all those games-
but I'll watch you play, you'll tell me the stories so maybe I'll stay.
I'll curl up on your sofabed and be your cat for the day.
And when I do leave, I'll wonder if you'll hear me pleading too,
You might think if there isn't distance I couldn't miss you.
That's not true.
That's not true.
At least I think- but take it with a grain and see me again.