What’s the difference?
They can both make you happy
Or give you severe diarrhea.
One way or another, it affects your life,
wether it be good or bad.
But, to be fair,
So does ******.

This is an ode to my cello
who's dream is to be on stage.
But when I mess up a note
it fills it with pure rage.

He let's me express my feelings
with something other than words.
His name is Castiel,
after an Angel of the Lord.

Every day, I hear his voice,
feeling joy when I play it through.
But sometimes my pitch is so off,
it sounds like an animal in a zoo.

He hears me sneeze from rosin dust,
and scream when I don't play right.
When I tune, we tell in agony.
My G-String peg was too tight.

He yells out in fear
when my brother touches him.
I jump out of bed and yell,
"DON'T TOUCH MY CELLO!"

But despite all this,
I adore my cello.
He's my golden boy
even without the golden sound.

You say it’s to help me.
To keep me in check.
You haven’t seen the patterns Ive dug in.
My wall has kissed my fist millions of times, my door is slammed shut because of you.
You say it’s to help me.
To keep me in check.
I’m crying and shaking in bed alone.

You make everything better.

Beautiful,
Glistening.
Golden and
Sparkling.

It sits next to a waterfall,
Near Dyjandi,
Vestfirdir, Iceland.
Perched on a rock.

Untouched for years,
It belongs to a girl.
A girl who has been looking,
Searching for years.

I'm sorry, mommy.

You told me you loved me. For the first time in years. You were tucking me in bed with tears stinging your eyes.

I stared back, looking at the ugly wrinkles lining your face.

"Well...I don't!"

I turned away, staring at the plain white wall.

You shouldn't have seen my wounds.

There’s a 55 gallon drum
in my yard beside the deck
half full of empty bottles
black ashes from burned poems
worthless words, regrets, bad
checks, the busted up scorched
bridge of Kurt Cobain’s Martin D-18E
half finished lyrics, melted Nirvana
vinyls, suicide notes charred and scared
every-bit as sincere as when written.