sometimes when i talk words just come out and i laugh because when i write stream of consciousness it just sounds like a fever dream
and then i see the flickering in the corner of my eye and then i hear my name
not the one i want to hear
the other one
and nobody said it and everyones still
and this isnt poetry the way the ones i love write poetry
they put words together in a way that sounds good and makes you feel
i put words together so i can understand them myself
i want people to read my poems because i want to be understood
but everything just leaves me in the dirt
i dont want to see it
i dont want to see it anymore

i  am a being of chaos only tamed
by the sound of euphony
through these head phones, i am one.
Complete, numb, distracted.

Doesn’t feel wrong to indulge in my happiness,
being in a crowd of strangers coming together
to see one big show.
Or indulging in CD’s
and staying up late fighting off killer stress
looking for more music to scavenge.

Empty,
hallow,
and futile feelings,
the piles of ****
i can no longer carry
becomes flushed.

i would rather listen to pointless rambles of a song
than tune in.

An escape, a friend, apartofme.

I do not know who I am addressing
but to whom it may concern
I am concerned
I am concerned with your character
past your name, past your sign, past your shore
I am concerned
you fear death, and loneliness, and loss
Your ignorance is your downfall
Your life, companionship, and love
are open, and still
waiting

I don't know where you are from
but I reach
I do wonder
past your street, past your zip, past your block
I do wonder how far you've come,
how hard your journey,
how arduous your task
but though chaos and entropy may dismay
further on through the further, and deeper, and colder, and darker

I don't know what you've done
but infinitely so
I do care.

Money rips
fibers pulling
and snapping
valueless greenery
as it ever was

Gold melts
like the slime
of materialism

Oil burns
for those who have
burned
for it

Be eternal
because to me
you ever will be.

Scattered, splattered gold – like sunshine, once
It crashes into a dark place, a cave by the sea,
Where no one ever goes.
She can pick it up, let it slip and drip
Between her fingers, fingertips. But
She can’t put it back together again.

This girl, someone’s child, she dances
And reads books, and likes to ride her bike
To ride roller-coasters, to fall in love like
The famous people. Mickey Mouse.
She loves love.
Or she used to, she once did, not now.

When she was young, she would write poems
And she would know so, that they were poems.
But somewhere, the rhythm of her mind changed:
Syncopation, alliteration, became the sing-song
That helped her through the night.

tonight
i don't belong here
my skin is not mine
hair like rope
up, i climb
to nowhere

tonight
pits where my eyes were
petals for lips
irises

we fall into blue
deep violet, violent blue
like oceanwater weight
i am, but not here
like kafka on the shore

So now she stays, she lives in the dark place,
That same cave where the sea places
Her secrets, things that need to be saved.
And she’s wrist deep in what used to be
Something warm, and sweet, and really quiet –
Holding sundust, smeared
Willing it back into the sky.

One of my wishes is that those trees,
so old and firm they scarcely show the breeze.
Where not as 'twere the  merest mark of gloom,
but stretched away, unto the edge of  doom.

I should not be withheld, but that some day,
into their vastness I might steal away.
Fearless of ever finding open land,
or the highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I don't know why I should ever turn back
or those not set forth upon my track.
To overtake me, who should miss me here
and long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew-
only more sure of all I thought was true.