There
Fresh page
Devoid of lines
Yesterdays writing shows still
But only in faded reversal
And with every new word inscribed
The past becomes that much more illegible
Unless pen is dropped page is turned back
Or if tears are spilt all over todays entry
Upon remembering the concerns worth writing about the day before
So fill blank spaces with ink and dont stop
To read the woes of previously recorded thoughts
Until the book runs out of pages
Or your hand is too tired
Pen out of juice
Then you can
Read back
Again

The little boy left his soccer ball on the field,
perhaps to be kicked around later,
only to find it missing.
And it was a gift from dad.
So dad bought him a new one,
and the little boy decided to keep it in the trunk,
and never play with it.
And he just picked up another hobby.
Years later, he found his soccer ball-
deflated.
So he went out and bought a new one.

Paused a netflix movie just to write this,
my eyes are heavy in both sleep and solemnity,
I miss you.
It might seem like I rather do other things,
but that's because I'm scared about when we're alone.
I don't want to disrupt whatever high you've got going.
So I'll write to you-
maybe you'll see this, maybe you'll never look back.
And that is all just okay.
I remember there was a time I just loved you-
fearlessly.
It didn't matter that you didn't trust me
because I was certain one day, all of that will come.
That as long as I loved you unconditionally-
I could show you.
I had so much passion- so much drive,
I was thriving in those moments.
I believed in something that might not ever work
for the sake of belief
I was so deep in love.
It was dream-like.
Somewhere along the line this proof of promise-
converted into fear of loss,
and for some reason, I never was able to make you see.
I don't know maybe you've lost the details in your dark shades.
And while I am dying for that moment you let down
your 200 ft wall,
I'm now aware it might not come.
I'm okay with this.
Because my love for you
is not about what you give to me.
It's about how much I enjoy reminding you
how incredible you really are.
You always seems to forget that- and I don't mind being the one
to show it every single day.
I've been at the end of such a love-
and it's hard to reciprocate unless you really feel it.
So I get it.
It's cool.
I'll just keep loving you.
Because with every day I try to show you-
I show myself how much love I can have,
and despite what you might think,
I'm spectacular.
And I'd love me if I loved me as I much as I loved you.
Admitting this is the first step, I believe,
to letting go
acceptance
that maybe I'm not meant to be loved by you.
But I'll be passionate, still.
I'll be thriving, still.
And I'm still so very deep in love.

Don't do nice things
if you expect something in return.
Pretty simple, right?
But what's an act
without appreciation?
Endangered.
There has been a trend
of less kindness in this world,
that directly correlates with it being unnoticed.
Some are too self absorbed to ever really see,
that the best way to keep someone around,
is to show gratitude
in the sincerity of a handheld
eye locked
"Thank you."
without the time restraints,
the obligations,
the unsaid apologies.
There's nothing wrong with realizing
someone did something special for you
and there's nothing wrong with hoping someone realizes.

Our summers carried hot days
where our skins shook loose and raw
wet and sticky
warm and blurry
like shared memories.
We loved the rain and shower
and felt safe under their power.
In the stormiest night I knew
we decided to cleanse ourselves of the day.
We stripped down to the ****.
We didn't know we had it in us.
The fence is high enough.
The sky is dark enough.
The fog is thickly cut
with a waterfall of storm.
We lit up blue when we heard thunder.
Stared at what's up above
and ran to shelter.
Our skins were soaked and bare.
It seemed to be a dare.
I looked down and my shoes were still on.
The magic disappeared.

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.

Energy to try is depleted.
I wonder if you'd even see this.
Not that I have problem telling you
how I feel-
but if you were wondering what it's like
to feel like I do...
who am I kidding?
You'll never even look at this.
You're not a stranger, and I almost wish you were-
so the fact that you don't check this regularly
didn't make me feel so insignificant.
And if you did check,
you'd see I'm making you famous
but you never needed help,
so I guess it doesn't matter.
No wonder you never look.

i'm terrified that if i write these thoughts down,
i'll feel emptier than i do right now.
but here i am, tapping away,
wondering if i should ditch work today.
went to the chiropractor for no good reason-
told him to 86 the neck adjustment.
last i did it, my head felt light. but i read somewhere that it might lead to stroke.
avoiding death, now that's a joke.
if i could just snap my spine, it could be alright.
but a gradual fade isn't much of a change
from right now.
so I buckle down,
i don't need any pity
and hospital wards give me the heebie jeebies.
i don't live a sad life, i shouldn't feel ******.
but the hormones that rage and gave me these *******,
could be why
it could be tonight.
too tired to live,
too wired to die.

Stop poking around.
You're just searching for another hair.
You're just searching for another reason to be sad.
You're not searching for a reason to leave.

I hear him utter curses in the other room.
Another ****** shake.
He's sipped something rotten and now it's gone to waste.
I lick the salt off of my skin.

Go ahead, deflect again.
Try to forget what you read.
It's 4/20 after all, put smoke in your head.
Cloud those memories a bit.

Icy **** rips.

***** and cigarettes.

Bernie lost New York last night.

Someone please ****** me.

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?

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?

a year ago, my writing was purple prose.
last month, it was filled with forced rhymes and capitals.
yesterday, it was pompous.
today, it's just novice.
right now, it's terribly trite.
on my death bed, I'll know it'll be all I have.

The spotlight on my skin
that never serves me justice.

When was our first kiss?
I wondered what you tasted like.
To this day I am dismissed-
though scandalous was our first night,
for me, it was still real bliss.
Not because you weren't him-
but you were you,
and not because it was a sin,
but you were you,
as much as now, and as much as then.

I tell you I missed you,
you press your lips together in silence-
as if admitting that you felt the same
would result in the loss of your voice,
forever.

You are searching for some one
who loves like you do.

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

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 ****.

Building a trigger-free environment
might mean you'll have to go.

No*, you do not love me.
I only love *you.

I dim the lights,
I sit in my bed, listening to the ac drone,
on and on and on.

I blink my tears into the corners of my mouth,
and then wipe em away, because its weird, right?
to eat your tears?

I think of you.
God, had I been made into a body that sees
a good thing.
God, if I had been made into a body, that is drawn to
something better
than what I've allowed.
I say things out loud.
Things I coat in sweetness,
because I love you, too, dude.
Just not in the same way, you do me.
And god, aren't we all looking for that one,
that does us?
And if I did you,
the way I am now.
You'd find the reasons why I shy,
why I know
unsatifactory, I promise.
You say you wont,
But god, thats no way to love.
You are my reason to flee
from the solitude that quite scares me
from the rubbers I use to numb me
to keep me good in bed,
but not quite good enough to get in their head
I avoid the competitive types
I like being wanted but I don't need to know
about the hurt
about who came first
I comprise the story, in my head
every day, and I know
that I'll never be enough
not cause' I didn't try.
But because I've never really wanted to.
Because I've never wanted to be enough

I fear everyone-
especially you.
Because no one is just them-
a person is never just a person.
They are a network of people, of passions
and memories that spark when
you experience.
And I would hate to only remember
how you taste,
in a vague passing thought.
So I fear you.
I fear losing you.
Because the network of my circulation
has your love in its center.
And without that-
there is only chaos.
I fear it
I fear everyone-
especially you.

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.