I’m tired of hearing a ******* metaphor
everywhere I go
Love refuses to be beautiful and classy
she is a seductive ***** in the bathroom
of a doctors office
Happiness does not come in the form of a jar
or a boy
or a girl
happiness is the day when the breeze reminds you of your favorite song
and I don’t even like that song
but I am helplessly in love with you and refuse to believe
that you are incapable of anything better than greatness
so I refuse to stutter or hesitate when saying I love you
because ******* if the breeze speaks louder than me
I wouldn't be surprised if you get up and leave with it
Like I said
Love is a backwash of ******* and codeine
so this voluptuous strut
is more of a drunken slump with a dragging limp
there is nothing beautiful about heartbreak
so put down your ******* cigarettes

Narcotic haze
distracting yet
influential
while i'm below it

radiating confusion
where madness
becomes comfortable

drawing out of the lines
only to erase them
with a sigh of relief

draining blood from a stone
synonymous with
making it worthwhile

while fury grips
tethering edges
tilting consciousness
the see-saw will break
before anyone gets off

I am stuck in the moment of time when
air refuses to fill my lungs
it feels a lot like drowning
above water
you see these conundrums
fill my palms like loose change
and I can’t seem to drop enough quarters into
the slot machine that is an attempt
at happiness
my smile put in his 2 weeks
8 years ago
and I’m still stuck waiting by the front door for him to come back
I’m still waiting for you to come back
like a postcard from a place I’ve visited too often
but never had the courage to visit a gift shop
I’ve been screaming at the man in the mirror
telling him to put on a ******* smile
like it’s a halloween costume
he is forced to wear everyday of the year
he can’t stand the arthritis on the clock
much too synonymous with his courage
he hasn’t had the ability to stand up to himself
since the day he fell of his bike
and tasted the burnt rubber on the asphalt
he can hear the earth sobbing to him off how the moon
continues to send him mixed signals
I can’t seem to swallow my pride
so I’ll fill up a bottle and sell it to the highest bidder
as if I am a ******* monument
of ‘ ******* it I should have said something’
There are too many suicide notes stuck on my fingertips
and my piano sounds a lot like a stomach full of butterflies
I can’t seem to differentiate between
mourning and morning
since the day I woke up smelling like a graveyard
9 years ago
I am a funeral soliloquy on repeat
and I can’t stand the ******* roses
and the ******* piano playing the butterflies that should have been dead years ago.

walking down back alleys
searching for consolidation
the wanderer takes the streets
the wanderer has no home
he follows the sound of
the deceitful racketeering
of the men sitting on his pride
choking it up
like a funeral service notice
2 weeks after the funeral
with empty pockets
and an emptier stomach
the venture undertook by the the swalloing of pride
every time
compromise finesses
his naive heart
and sun burnt skin
as the moon comes out
to steal our decisiveness.

Every morning,
I would sip the wine cupped in your collarbones
drunk on your laughter
stuttering and stammering every time you’d smile
I sit in AA meetings like a child in timeout
waiting for you to tell me it’s time to pick up another glass
I am stuck suffocating on the aroma of all of the skeletons
in my floorboards
they murmur of you with every step I take
it makes me spill the vulgarity sloshing in my cup
and with the whirring of regret in my lungs
choking down the bitterness of your departure
I am reminded that you
are the warning sign on a cup of coffee
scolding hot and irrevocably ****
here to drown out the drought of liability
stuck within my pores.

Flesh and blood
everything noxious with the universe
the swaying is nauseating
the praying
infrequent
adaptable as long as the provisions
are profitable
we have a harder time identifying ourselves
in a crowd
than anybody else
and the drugs and alcohol
will drain us of morality and as the
corpses we are
****** to walk
we're selfish
and poetic
and with that
we exhale &
***** our previous selves;
the version the history books
forgot to mention.

I swear ,
I have never meant to hurt you,
But my hands are knives
Unsheathed
And I swear it was
Never my intention
To leave you
But my feet started moving
Before my mouth
Could speak up
Because my voice box
Can’t stand up for itself
Because it’s a paraplegic
And shoelaces tied
Or not,
I will still fall every time I look into your eyes.
Jesus Christ,
My knees buckle more then my belt collection,
And my hands shake more then maracas.
Because when I said you were everything I had,
I sold everything for you.

Aimless in all that isn't,
finding myself along the marginals
while limelight is too sour
to make lemonade
breaking even improbable
with weight serrated
worthwhile; a high
that has been sought
stretching and searching
unwilling to contend
waiting and wondering
whenever it wills

When I lost my innocence, my sanity
Went on a binge that has lasted
Years, and it hasn’t visited in a while
Nights spent staring at blank walls
Trying to make sense of something
That just doesn’t
The hysteria is maddening when
The voice in your head doesn’t answer
Where do wandering lost souls venture to
Or do they stick around their tragedies
I feel my past selves attempting to drown
My happiness, every time it stops by
The moments fleet
But the carved manic lunacy remains

Intricate to the point where
elegance is a warning label
as if quality has always been inferred
the simplicity behind it all
could be considered
narcotically nauseating
the roller coaster
is one ridden too many times
the rhythm of the atmosphere
is elusive enough
to distract anybody from reality
and within those moments
you are in another universe
completely.

Whispering amongst ourselves
reciting incantations
proclaiming proclivity
while **** stirs
caustic to repertoire
indecisive to belief
creating choices
to avoid time
in our space

I’ve spent so many nights awake
driven by illusive insomnia
speaking to the moon
about his drinking problem
he’s convinced there isn’t one
habitual enthusiast
he calls it
he can’t say it without smiling
he talks about the sun
the way children speak about summer
midwinter
with bloodshot eyes
and a crooked grin
he plays the oceans tides like a piano
another ballad
unheard
he continues playing
long after I’ve fallen asleep
drinking down his pride
he reminds himself
drinks are on me tomorrow night.

I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl
synonymous with punch lines
bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists
fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar
of a bright metallic crimson
It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying
holding and letting go
so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off
why haven’t you drank the water in the cup
that is either half full or half empty
when millions are dying of thirst
tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic
tell me just how much of one you’ve become
there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass
no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror
tell me about the stranger in the mirror
there is no solemnity in solitude
only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness
I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh
but leave me bruised and remorseful
I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours
I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.

I can not help but cringe from your touch,
But who am I to blame?
For after stomping on my assertion,
And spitting on my self esteem,
You left.
Like a whisper in the wind,
And my heart breaks my ribs
With every gentle breeze,
Expecting your return.

I miss the nights,
shoulders hunched over the soulless luminescence of a screen,
eager for the tapping of buttons
to proudly displays
imperfect works of art.

For writers are not naysayers,
nor speakers of the truth,
not speakers for the people,
or those that govern the people,
we are individualistic shortcomings ,
aspiring to be wore more than a few syllables,
or a clever punch line.

We are the lonely,
the distraught,
the happy and sad,
we are the people,
for in each of us is a writer,
dying to aspire to more than a few words.

We demand recognition.

We crave love.

But we receive neither,
for here we are at late hours
of the empty dark night,
hunched over the luminescence of a soulless keyboard,
eager to **** the expectations
of anyone aspiring to be more than a few words.

These hands ache and cry for your touch.
Nostrils repressed, because I've never smelt
Anything as sweet as you.
I can not taste the food I do not wish to eat,
For it is nothing to your lips.

I hear this dull echo in the pit of my ribs,
Where my heart used to be.
It's gone now,
After you tore it out with your first hello,
Squeezed it with our first kiss,
Soothed it after its over dose,
And crushed with your good bye.

I thought of you when I woke up,
And when I went to bed;
Before and after I brushed my teeth;
Whenever I moved, I thought of you.

That terrified me more then anything I've ever known.

The fact I had become so infatuated with the way you spoke,
Sang, Smelt, Dressed, Drew, Wrote, Laughed, Breathed, Lived, Ate, Smiled, Frowned, Sighed, Twisted, Turned, Loved,
And I know there are millions more of verbs to list
that I had become so infatuated with when it came to you,
but just the warmth that comes from hearing your name is enough to melt the glaciers.

I didn't love you,
But I knew in time I would have.