When you feel like the world is  crashing only to realize it is just your world
It  finally dawns on you ,reality behold.
Masking how you feel just to avoid the most common lie “l am fine”
When you really just mean help me ,should be a sign .
Knowing you should just confine .
So you put on a fake pretence of some kind.
hoping one day you will wake from the illusion you have created .

My younger brother still fishes
when he can, when the weather
is agreeable, when he can afford
some tackle and beer for the cooler.

He sits alone on the river bank
and smokes and drinks and waits
in the shifting shade of cottonwoods
for the unmistakable pull on the line.

He fishes whether
the fish are biting
or not. He is intimate with
psychology and the placid
deceit of undisturbed water.

My brother is an angry man.

As kids, we fished
together on the dock
and killed them
with our hands.

Careful not to kneel
on scattered hooks,
we baited the lines
on our knees a foot
above brackish water.

We dropped fish heads
off the edge of the dock
and watched them float
down, almost out of sight,
settling into final stillness
only to snap back to life
(or the false throes of death)
by the white claws of *****
picking them into oblivion—
goodbye eyes,
goodbye gills,
goodbye teeth,
goodbye scales.

Brother, I don’t remember anymore:
was it triumph or merely shame
that left us shivering in the sun?

And in the midst
of all my insecurities,

today

I experienced a moment of bliss

I saw pure specks of warm, cool life,
hovering in the air

and I felt the warm wind brush against my hair,
with every step I took resounding within me

and they blocked the despising glares
tuned out the sorrowfulness in my heart,

laid down
a worn, sturdy, gentle path to guide me as I walk

and whenever I get lost trying to find others,

I can follow the clusters of twinkling stars in the night sky above
back to path of where I found myself,

because I had never been lost.

We never thought to think this

but, looking for someone who you can never be
is not being lost,

it's letting yourself lose
who you really are.

And life is too much of a gift
to drown yourself in others' sorrow and call it your own,

now it feels so free
to just be who you really are.

You think you know every little crack, every crevice in my soul; yet there is so much of my life’s book that you haven’t read. My hair is a carefully styled mess, strategically placed static, and my lips are what they are- lonely. Sometimes I think you wonder about who I am, my origins; I can’t say that I don’t either. How’d I end up as such as mistake? You love me for what you say are perfections, yet you see not the real me, you see the front I put up, my acting. How can one be addicted to a person who doesn’t even know themself? Yet loving you makes me want to learn.

We both **** the life, the very being from each other; yet it is still not enough. I want to hook myself to you like an IV, to pull the gold running through your veins into my conciousness and let it light me. If there was a way to evaporate your essence and save it in a bottle for later, I’d be the scientist who discovered the way to do it. The very scent of you carried on the air from yards away is enough to register me for a few centuries in an asylum. You say you barely wearr cologne, and I understand it. You wear yourself, a fragrance I wish I could rub all over myself every second of every day, every time I curl up in a ball on my bed after you drive home at night, wondering why it is you can’t just stay.

You belong to the road, you’ve sold your soul to the feeling of the wind in your hair. I can’t break your contract with independence, but I can tag along for the ride. Seeing you so happy, getting your racer’s tan, blaring the radio until the speakers want to scream. Why can’t I partake in your happiness? I wish there was a way for us to share the love for the world that you have; in its’ place in my mind is loathing. The only reason for living I have is you- and all I ask of you is to answer this one question; how have you fallen for this fallen angel, the outcast of society, the girl whom everyone forgot to remember and who you didn’t remember to forget?

i just want my eyelashes against your cheeks.

poetry and suicide
the two left feet
of a child
forced to play
horseshoe
horse
a waste
of strangeness