i long for that hip-held vibration.
secret shower/ *******.
you're a product of my imagination.
only temptation. lonely location.
find me in my blind elation.
waiting. waiting.
lost in translation.

for better control, command yourself to return to your happy place.
shift into gear, delete your worries, give yourself the option to escape.
alternate which function you serve to bring brightness to your life.
turn up the volume, press play on peace.
don't keep tabs on your friends, trust that they will back you up when needed.
monitor your indulgences, keep an eye on your power,  and don't exhaust your system.
when you're tired, power off, and remember you can always restart.

the caffeine is crucial
for this day-time creature,
the low-lit room an optional feature
for my attempted artistic-flair
paint brushes discarded on the floor
i took up drawing, graphite stained hands
and red eyes in the light of morning's sun
through the cracked window
of my old apartment-turned-studio
it was that morning i realized
the faces on paper would never
come to life
or serve a greater purpose than
good looks and candy-to-the-eye
it was that moment, i realized,
there was much more than re-creation
remixing and redoing
redundant copies of someone else's idea
and in that moment, when i realized,
talent is subjective and in the general eyes
of the artistic world, i was **** on the side
of the street where van gogh and picasso
strutted their dead-man's artistic *****.
and now i know that there's got to be something
more than staying up all night drawing from a
photograph a classmate gave to my sight
and earning ten dollars for every hour spent
dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of
plants that could have grown to serve better.
and now i know i was made for something more
than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor
and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old
spanish self portrait photographer.
in the western world, the people want me as
an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones
but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes
for those who have not had the privilege of holding a
pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.

a fear of love
and a fear of
forever

you asked me once,
and i kissed you better

can we call it now?
when we're living
our past?

or lock lips
and break out
of this
cast?

should we now,
or could we ever?

I watch Magic Bullet infomercials and
fondly think of you
and how you would
laugh at every line
I recite
from memory.

I ask you not
to step on and snap this silence
that the city bus creates
humming gently into a permanent
tread mark.
A footprint of
the squinting spark.






Silence!
Speaks to everyone.

Sitting, I
see a spider married to air. I
wonder what it'd be like—
creating something only I
can see. And then I
realize. I
already know.

the most honest i've ever been was with the boy
who lied to everybody else but me; i told him that
i didn't know why i trusted him but i didn't mind if he
never wanted to let go of my hand, that as long as he held on
i'd keep on talking, that all i wanted to be was an
astronaut so i could write first hand-accounts
of the stars, that i imagined creating a new name for myself
every time i woke up so that i wouldn't have to live with my
past, that i didn't know the difference between love and
fear or if there was even a difference at all

in return, he told me a truth that only he believed in
(you're perfect, i swear it)

from then on, i choked on every truth i tried to say, so i ran away
and that night i whispered to the dark over and over again
to convince myself i'd be ready the next time somebody dared me to say it
(i'mscared, i'mscared, i'mscared, i'msorry, iloveyou, i'mscared)