The two of us staring
At the stars in the sky
Making wishes on comets
And things that fly by

What will we be like?
Where will we live?
We will we both be successful?
Will we both take or give?

Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band

In the back of the pickup
My girlfriend and me
Make dreams upon stardust
At a quarter to three

We're out in the cornfield
In my old chevy truck
Planning out lifes direction
On a stroke of good luck

Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band

It may be a spaceship
That's come down from afar
Or we may be there wishing
On some shooting star

Our future is waiting
There'll be tough times ahead
Meeting those expectations
We made in that truck bed

Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band.

I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it

so don't bet on it
or even think about
it

just get out of bed
each morning

wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it

because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness

so you just
can't
expect too much

you can't even
expect

so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base

like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there

and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat

then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.

and
it's the damndest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it--

low budget
and
4 billion
critics

and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is

one
day.

That cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town
Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes
And they do their damndest to draw her attention
Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out
And the piano man run away
Sometimes they shoot the others down
All for the chance to pay two dollars
To lay with the only cowgirl in town
She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls
****, loose and fast
Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin
Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
I asked her to marry me
Many times before
She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.”
In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways
Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly
All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house,
Settling down and starting a family.
But that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I.

There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)

II.

I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)

III.

Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

It’s the damndest thing when attentions focused
on one thing beget the focus of another
Like the rooster crowing the sunlight
in the cold, ungrateful weather,
My eyes scan the ups and downs
of those digital stand-ins for those I’ve known
Seeing mistakes, my own and in others,
Seeing perfection, in other’s imperfect successes,
wantonly rubbed in my eyes

As I springboard from the travails of those
with whom I may never vocalize my adoration
I drop out of the air of a life far from mine,
I see mention of a passed on spirit
Who I truly adored,
no digital fakery of half-true fables necessary
to express my love for the ideals implanted in me
by such a tongue so supplicant to the truths in that vast ether
where I used to swim in the light,
never thinking of the dark climes below.  
What choice do I have on an accidental evening like tonight?
I no longer can mask disinterest for other’s soaring narratives
when my true care has been discovered,
been pried away from that dark corner of the airborne pool so ethereal.  

My care, my pride have been torn asunder,
by a mere errant glance on a mere sideways mention
Of a massive, earthly idol, who, if only for a stanza of years
held my full gaze with hopeful smiles and ecstatic promise
for bright futures now gone into grey pastures.  

I lay here an imposter in authentic skin
if only for the sight of words on screens,
with scant meaning in between.

In a culture founded on a story, a tale, a myth;

On earth, under many moons, since many moons ago.

How old was the moon marker long ago?
How wise the watcher who waited so long, whole days,
long past, imagining, from highest place on the broad plain

soaring on fire wind, gentle fire wind warming my will
to extend my arms and wish to fly, not flee, no fear,
nothing needs my escape,

yet, once set free, the kid grows into the old goat,
who laughs in the face of the God-fearing models molded
during the Cold War,
when manipulators
of reflection
were existentially
slipping
on Freudean Faux Pas
turned sharp and piercing, biting, gnawing - tantalizing
secrets in the city,
secrets on the wall,
secrets in the synagogue, AI ai ai, we rearrange good fortune,

lucky for you.
Today, for the brief while it may truly be today,
time stands

still as that singular small voice, calling you to attend,

forsake not the gathering together, as the manner of some is,
{As Ecklebarger said, no, you don't know him- he said:
something like "gitcher act together and put your show
on the road", that's the duty of a show man.

GOTDAM INTINERANT MONKS! Kick against the ******,
laugh at their nationally altered deep set fears,
faith of our fathers, the we
mind, made up
for selective tasks in a free society, i.e.
we think together, no doubt, deny thy double-mind flesh…
become educated, then lead on being one
in we, the people, not the other beings,
useless sons of Belial, too dumb to read and cipher, as we,
the real people who own the earth, and do our damndest
to subdue it and all its potential,
for change, in favor of the better bettors,
entertaining those whose heaven would be Vegas,
socially free, free thinking, doing the right thing we all think right.
Conserve our free ******* through human events, lean in
- what do old-school organizations tie with heart strings?
- must we conserve the knots?
- One taught by Aristotle thought not…
- allusions to common knowledge allude us, play along--
Is ai ah, okeh, awesome we ought unravel the knots,
gently, as we learned the silk weavers did,

and as we did, with our collectible spider kites…

correct me, when I go off track,
or rise riverwise on the flood,
loosed by a line from a poet, an actual messenger person,
in my coincidence instant
in prayer for another day called today, long past
now, even then,
U the set of all things and the force that made them up.
- let this mind be in you, to use, not ogle at.
Creation with intention,
not design,
not acting out a story begun properly,
with the end in mind,
going
somewhere. Among the Youtubian talking faces,

turbulence… mind trembling
in a we imagining GOD ALMIGHTY
left
clues behind.
Fret not.
- tune down the IDW, umph the free will
- listen with all the wu wu in you, think peace functioning.
We won.

Live in peace, be your own proof.

I learned I was the scapegoat, I got away. Life is not hard,
life under the conserved sacred knowledge called revealed,
is impossible,
to do right… it is a Shakenspear in the itching ear, thinking
what if, this is it
the right way?

Would there be these moments, extending axion or oms or Ohms
humming wires
and, two chalk walls away, sisters, 8 and 11, singing, actual

choral opera de-Disneyified, with some themes from Stanger Things.
- and I on my imaginary strand
Softly land on my cloud, all the room you may imagine,
at the moment, you look around
and see, this is my future, too. Fractally, one rung up. Maybe.

Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:

He
*******
lived.

Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
******* and Die.

He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.

What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.

He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.

You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.

So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.

That makes sense.

But everything in me
still wants to
believe.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You get a sudden rush of cold late Winter air.
The world smells like it's never going to stop raining.
Your brother and you are sitting outside the garage.
You can't stop crying,
But he's still trying his damndest to comfort you.
You were five.
For three years after, you will still think it is your fault
For coming inside covered in rain water.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

Your eyes stung with tears.
Your chest felt heavy.
But you couldn't tell what hurt worse,
The literal smack across the face,
Or the sting of betrayal when your mother agrees with your father,
That you are, in fact, no good.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You're sitting out in the living room of the apartment.
The room is dark,
Except for a fading lamp.
It is 9:30 at night.
The sun is only beginning to fall behind the horizon.
Your father finally speaks,
After clearing his throat,
A slight cough to clear the residual cold from the ice of his drink-- tonight was scotch, thank god.
He says "Y'know, it's okay if you're a lesbian. Just make sure your girlfriend is hot. Oh, and blonde." He laughs bitterly between sips.
You can smell the alcohol from where you're sitting.
You can feel the dread in the pit of your stomach.
You feel hot anger piercing and burning your palms.
You hold your fists tighter.
You clench your jaw until your head hurts.
You mumble something.
"What?" He snaps, half apathetic, have with a dangerous edge.

"I don't like blondes." You say through gritted teeth. It's only a half-truth. You don't actually like anybody, blonde or otherwise.

He laughs, but you know it's forced.
"Trust me when I say this, you definitely can't afford to be that picky."

Your eyes meet his. Shadow against shadow. Midnight against midnight. You don't speak. He laughs, and goes on to tell you how he's the only one in this family that even likes you, so you better start being nicer to him.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You don't remember hurting yourself,
So when she asks, you tell her
That you don't know where the cuts came from.
She calls you a coward for not having already taken your own life.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You were up all night,
Wishing you wouldn't wake up.
You go to walk out the door to the bus,
You stop in the kitchen to grab something quick for breakfast.
As soon as your hand reaches the cupboard handle, you can feel her gaze on your back.
You decide you don't want breakfast that morning.

"Why are you--"

She's in the hospital again.
You just wanted to celebrate your brother
Having made it another year in this hell hole.
But that's not what she wanted.
You both spend his birthday sitting silently in the hotel room,
Staring out the window,
Wishing that Spring would bring a change along with all the warmth it promises.

"-- burning precious childhood memories?"

Your little brother his crying.
The other is asleep.
But this brother has a cold.
The other is still asleep.
This brother cries
Because he doesn't feel good.
He's barely four months old
So he can't use his words.

He's crying very loudly.

She screams in his face.
Tells him to stop crying.
Tells him to just shut up already.
You jump off the couch
And yell at her as loud as your eight year old self can manage to be.
"DON'T YELL AT HIM. HE'S ONLY A BABY!"

She glares at you,
A wicked snarl,
And tells you that she'll do whatever the hell she wants,
You're her children.

He's still crying.
Now they're both awake,
And they're both crying.

"Why are you--"

"W-why are y-you"

*"Why are you burning--"

Maybe,
            you’re still visible.

When you smile, just wide enough, bright, and --
your eyes glaze over, just a little. ever-present, the red-rimmed edges.
Your posture is good form. Back straight, shoulders pulled, and -- rigid.
too rigid. so when was the last time you let down your guard?
You seem perfect, darling - you seem fine.
except the moments that you freeze, stuck still, can’t move,
when no one’s looking.

Because the people who would have noticed you --
who would have seen you,
                                                  Did see you,
falling apart at the seems,
hands shaking and gulping unsteady breaths,
head spinning when the world wasn’t
desperately alone and wanting not to be --
                                                         ­    Are gone. Again.
                                                         ­                               There’s no one there.

Months ago, almost a year now, they found you.
{Your soon to be, family, of 9 friends.}
Not impressive in the least,
                          almost completely faded into the wallpaper,
                                             utterly breakable, utterly close to broken,
                                                         ­                                         utterly alone.
And they gave you
                                    hands,
                                                   stories,
                                                                ­   lifelines,
                                                                ­                     and hugs.
Resumed you back, to a more bearable way of living.
                                                    ­ And you were so, so, desperate -- so you
stayed, against your better judgement --
you watched, and you learned.
                         How to hide things, your secrets.
                         How to lie, and do it brilliantly -- always only to protect.
                         How to fake being fine:
                           trying to hide tear tracks? -
                                 rub your eyes with cold water, just say you’re tired
                                 (it’s always true)
                           make other people believe you? -
                                 lie by omission, and avoid the word fine
                                 (use synonyms)
                           panic attacks? -
                                learn your signs, nearest places no one will go, and when
                                 (and walk, then run)
                            who to trust? -
                               the ones who stick close. the ones too much like you.
                               (the ones who see you, always, visible or not.)
but also:
How to let other people orbit around you, and not just orbit them.
How to throw caution to the wind and say, I love you, permanent or not.
How nothing lasts (but you knew that), but
sometimes, somethings, are still worth it.
And how to breathe again, a little bit more easily,
bit more like you used to be able to.

It falls apart spectacularly (the kindest way imaginable), with
goodbyes,
        i love yous,
              i’ll miss yous,
                        stay in touch,
                                 a plethora of hugs (you used to flinch away from).

And being alone is so hard -- however did you stand it?
there’s a gaping ache, of loneliness,
                                                               l­onging,
                                      of missing, in your chest, you can’t quite identify --

you just want a hug,
                                       someone’s arms around your shoulders just to
ground you,
Just a laugh, or a smile; a friendly face,
just someone, just anyone --
                                                         ­       your closest lifeline lives sixthousandsevenhundredandeighty
                            ­                                    kilometers away.

it’s one of your further away friends, who tells you,
If you feel homesick, you know, that makes sense
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world

                                                              It makes the air around you go still,
                                                                ­               makes your breath pause.
you thought home was a place.
and if home was a place, well,
you’d never have one.
                                                  so however did you end up
                                                 with nine, whole, pieces of it?
                                                with something like a family,
                                              even if you can’t say it aloud?

So that’s why
           There’s a constant, thin, circle of red, around your eyes,
           Why you’ve once again forgotten how to trust,
           Why you’ll stare off into the distance, just for a beat,
     your stream of conscious
                 I miss you I miss you I love you I miss you
                     brought back up to the surface.
But it’s also:
Staying inside when it rains, and pours,
not going out and getting drenched
because you want a tangible reason to feel miserable;
Actively trying to sleep, at halfway decent hours,
because maybe, you can.
because you might be an insomniac, but
you never tried to stop it;
And eating, whole, actual, proper, meals,
no longer skipping, because it may taste like nothing
but there’s no longer the nausea.
A few steps in the right direction, perhaps.

You have so many self-destructive tendencies; habits, now,
  and no one but you to stop them.
and it would be so much easier, to not.
to let them all devour you, because
                                                                ­ you’re not all that terrified of them
and you should be.

So instead, you’re trying. Your damndest.
                                                      ­            Because your friends taught you,
how to piece yourself back together,
and to try to keep living.
and you owe them enough, to do your utmost,
to keep yourself as intact as you possibly can.

You aren’t great, and
You aren’t fine,
despite a passable impression.
                         You’re alright,
                                                Because, you’re trying,
I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I miss you
                                                And, slowly, you’re getting there,
Maybe, someday, you can make yourself visible again.
                                                         ­                                        Homesick, or not.
         you’re alright.


         You’re alright.

It has been two years, one month, 22 days, and 16 hours since I last saw you, and I have a gun up to my head. And even though it is my own finger on the trigger, I am just as vulnerable as if the appendage belonged to someone else. See, the thing is, you did not realize how much you meant to the world- and to me- when you found yourself in much the same position as I am now. And that is why I had to bury you, my love, under that old tree that you thought was beautiful but I thought was a mess. Though, when they moved to cut it down, I stood right there beside you in front of those **** chainsaws and I never moved in inch except to hold your hand. I will never forget the way you looked at me then. The next time I saw that look was when we were both standing there at the altar, you covered in blue and green sundress (because wedding dresses were too stuffy), and I in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt you had picked out for me two days before. I remember waking up that night to you studying me. I asked you what you were doing, to which you replied, “I want to write about you”. I remember thinking that it was not humanly possible to love you any more than I did right then. A thought that would later be proved wrong repeatedly as the years passed.
And then, in the fall of 1997, you were diagnosed with a cocktail of manic depressive disorder and multiple sclerosis. I was terrified, to be perfectly honest. But I tried my damndest to keep you as happy and comfortable as I could make you. I began going to church. I wished on every star. We even sold our city house in favor of a simple country lifestyle to get away from the city air and stress of it all. And yet still your condition worsened. I didn’t get much work done anymore, but I was much happier taking care of you than I was working for that ******* company.
And then you left me that note. That ******* NOTE telling me that you were sorry and that you had had spoiled my life. Telling me that I was better off without you. Telling me that you were lifting the burden off my shoulders and that it was the best thing you could do for me.
       They found your body three days later on the edge of the river. You had put stones in your pockets, my love. But what I could never make you understand is that you were not my burden. You were my rope tethering me to the ground when I was in danger of floating off. You were the ship that carried me to new and exotic places when I lost my inspiration. You were the tools with which I painted a beautiful life, and a beautiful future up to this point. So love, when you took that final walk into the water thinking that you were doing me a favor, you were wrong. And that is why I am sitting here, on this ******* bed that once belonged to us, threatening myself for about the millionth ******* time since your passing. But this time, I think I might be ser---

My emotions towards you are aquatic.  They drip, slip, pulse
and flow to the path of most resistance.  Subtle beauties
stealthily scrapes my fear built walls to sudden stops.

These firing synapses, so intense that post spinal separation
I feel as if I have woke from a dream, fallen from the
beautiful skeleton winged bird carrying me.

The years I have spent hidden from eye’s view were attempts
at thwarting toothy rejections.  Hidden, you wouldn’t
notice me cautiously juggling salacious seven faces.

You see, if I were to over commit past the “we” to the “us”,
my fine, out of tune Life of Possibilities would rattle
down, fracture shut.  In a positive way of course!

I fear that if I gave you my crumbled, humbled heart you would
leave it somewhere, somewhere that the ravenous street
sweeper sharks might get their carnivore fins on it.

You knew all of this already, placing us back at level 1.
I tried my damndest, you can hardly see.  Sorry
my dear, this is the best my poems can do.

Oh, to sail upon the sea.
To brave that which so scares me,
To leave land and life behind,
To sever those ties that bind.

To experiance all those amazing places that I so want to SEE!
That will be something that will forever impact me.
But oh,
Can it happen?
I don't know!

I'm really sick in my body,
Even though I have never said,
It is true that at times I,
Who so loves life,
And beauty.
Have wished to be dead.

Sometimes it is hard to continue on,
But I CAN be strong.

Because I want to experiance those places,
To see,
The world,
The tropics,
Those places,
That make me hope and dream,
The sea and its steams,
There is so much to see!

Dear God,
My lord,
heal me,
Let me be healthy,
So that I can live my dreams,
And photograph,
And experiance,
All that is in my heart,
All that is me.

I want to feel hot white sand beneath my feat,
To stand underneath the Saharan sun,
to feel that great heat,
To Stand upon Rapau Nui,  
To FEEL that island beat,
I want to gaze upon the pyramids,
That are ages old,
To gaze upon greek statues of Zeus,
Marble and Gold.
To see forests,
Forever untouched by man,
To visit places,
Unique upon all the lands.

Seattle is my home,
From Father Mountains,
And Mother sea,
But I want to see those places that I always dream of.
Lord,
God,
Let me be free,
Let me healthy.

Or,
To hell with that,
Let me,
Be,
Tenacious enough,
To do what I dream of,
Anyway,
Good God,
Just let my spirit soar,
Let me see,
Let me Photograph,
Just,
LET ME BE FREE,
Just let me open my eyes to beauty,
and let me see.
(with camera in hand)
Long I stand,
Healthy or not,
Let it be known,
Life's,
God's,
Gaea's,
Great beauty,
I have sought.

Gone on too long,
This poem has rambled.
Dear lord,
Let me,
See.  

At the end of my days,
Be it months or years,
Let me see those mountains,
Seas,
Shores and streams,
Let me see those places,
that constantly show up,
That shine through my dreams.

Let me see,
With camera in hand.
Sick or healthy.
Every part of me,
Will do my damndest,
to fight,
To take pictures,
and to stand,

Upon those shores,
sands and streams,
that beckon me,
through my dreams.

-First Date-

Shirt goes on. Shirt comes off. Wriggle into jeans. Bend knees. No jeans. Maybe the newish skirt? Loose dress? Bearing in mind it’s a nightclub, I close my eyes in a quick bid to channel my inner Oracle for foresight on how to dress myself appropriately for the occasion. Twelve years ago I went on my first “date”, yet I’ve Benjamin Buttoned one of the first skills I’ve learned- once so bold, I’ve since regressed- now so perplexed with clothing, in wonder at the texture of colours, the worn-mama of a Technicolor sock orphanage, unable to wear a sweater without wearing every memory woven within. Wool makes my hippocampus itch even more than my skin. Stumbling around my room like a strange toddler-giant, I harvest outfits from my floor, assess, and toss back down into my unapologetically red **** carpet. It came with the house, unlike me. I should have been downstairs 5 minutes ago. Boy’s razor has stopped whirring and all I can hear is the soft swish of my own rummaging, punctuated by the immensely dear and clumsy strumming of my guitar as he patiently waits. A basic four-chord pop progression, and then the bones of a Radiohead song I taught him months ago when we were Just Friends and I was simply the older sister of his best pal from undergrad. Strictly off-limits, and so we grew close in the plainest, most innocent of ways, letting our insufferably weird senses of humor and quirky authentic selves hang out like big bellies over unbuttoned pants. He laughed at all my jokes and I became addicted to the sound. In spite of my five left-arms I tried my damndest to learn Ultimate when he invited me to his league just so we had another excuse to spend our Sundays together. How suddenly and beautifully it changed, very late one night and as naturally as if we had been together for months and the only oblivious parties were us. How fitting now that we should have our first date with my favourite musician, an artist who we had bonded over in our early days.

Unless, of course, I take so long to get dressed that we miss it. I abide by Murphy’s Law as I don my original ensemble and scramble down the stairs with my hands open in apology. Boy is lying on the couch with a button-down plaid shirt and a clean face, a stunning picture of leisure even though we are late. He smells magnificently fresh and I stifle the urge to cough out the butterflies that tickle my throat. Soon we are in a car and the city glides by like a watercolour backdrop, darkened and intensified by the rain. Finding weekend parking on Granville Street is a trick and I feel my driving-nerves swirling about with infatuation for my date and my unbelievable excitement to hear Kishi Bashi and his magical violin live, creating a swamp-water of adrenaline that intoxicates me. I probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel at this point. A side street holds the space for the vehicle and we stumble out into the glorious fresh and chilly spring evening to The Venue. We share smiles and quiet stumblings through conversations that feel suddenly new as we dog-paddle the waters of What We Are Now (What Are We Now?) Normally this would fill me with anxiety, but there is a warmth and earnestness to his electric blue eyes that arrest my fear. I am floating. He is floating. We are red balloons attached by a string to each other and everything about this moment feels buoyant and filled with light, each quick step up the busy, wet sidewalk seems a little freer of gravity. With the seamless quality of a dream-montage our surroundings change and we are inside the bar. It is dark and the scene has been set by a subtle smoke machine that beckons people closer within an otherworldly fog. The lighting is nautical, a deep and dreamy pallet of purples, teals, sapphires that are opaque in the smoke- thick, sliceable beams from the ceiling that rotate lazily through the bar. I wonder out loud at how gorgeous they are and Boy agrees as we marvel at the watery beauty of the frozen fireworks around us. He buys us beer and the bottle is very cold, juxtaposed with the warmth my free hand finds as it punctuates our conversations with a magnetism to his arm, his side, like a bird testing out the tree it hopes to nest in. The bitter, hoppy fizz cuts through the mint in my mouth and I am purring, utterly content. As the minutes pass more and more people appear in singles and doubles and groups. Some are dressed in spandex and skin- ready to dance and flirt, others in heavy layers and caps, looking suspiciously like they had brought their knitting right with there with them. The best music draws out all types of people.

Suddenly I am arrested by the presence of a slight Japanese man, hair spiked up in an edgy bedhead and wearing a sand-coloured suit and bowtie who says “excuse me” as he passes in front of us like a common mortal, just some other dude of average height and appearance and not the music god whose albums have become a part of my blood. Boy catches my shock and follows my laser eyes to the passing man, before exclaiming: “No- no, that isn’t? Was that...?!” With my empathic affirmation I allow my knees to buckle, one third for comedic effect, one third because I am literally star-struck, and one third for the delicious slump into my stunning companion’s arms. It is Hallowe’en. It is Valentine’s Day. It is Christmas. “I’m dying!” I laugh, “I’m literally dying, I’m dying- this is too much, too much- I’m dead!” Boy laughs, his shy voice like a cozy bell and he kisses me firmly, purposefully, dominating my senses with his heat and fresh-smell and endorphins. He grins as he pulls away, shaking his head at me- “No. You’re alive. You’re so alive.” We smile in helpless excitement at each other. “Besides, I think he totally looked at you” he teases. My brain literally can’t process this and I gasp at him to stop. The lights dance more quickly and the man and his violin are on the stage. People are cheering and the room thrills in anticipation. The speakers are so loud and I don’t care, I am hungry for the bass that pulses up through my feet and entrains with my heartbeat. Kishi Bashi introduces himself and my brain stops. Boy’s arm is around me and for the first time in years I am full of an innocent, earnest sensation that I had left for false or even dead. I could almost weep for the joy of it.
Oh hello, will you be mine? I haven’t felt this alive in a long time... my lips move soundlessly with the song I had shown Boy casually months before (“this is my all-time favourite, you’ve gotta check it out”) In our makeshift guitar lessons he had assured me that he would learn this song for me, just to show off how good he was getting- a small jest that left me spinning for nights in sleepless analysis of what that could mean and if he felt the same way about me after all.

I read the signs, I haven’t been this in love in a long time... and I feel Boy’s chest move in a sigh and he draws slightly closer within the chorus so that we are cocooned in the blue and purple and heartwrenching sweep of the violin loops. The crowd sways but we are very still. I notice that my hand is in his and the imperceptible, feathery stroke of his thumb along my palm is as loud as the speakers. Boy was right. I feel this moment tattoo upon my bones, a picture that I will trace over with my mind again and again as time stops and stretches, bending the continuum into an impossible possibility of falling in love and realizing it is for keeps. That no matter how the rest unfolds, this first date, this moment, knew true happiness and belonging in what it means to be

alive.

the way that your hands fit into your pockets
makes it seem like you've got secrets
hiding in the creases of your palms
i wanna unravel your white-knuckled fists
and read the braille of your fingertps aloud
to a crowd of strangers

let me type my philosophies out
along the margin of your spine
in morse code

i'm the best story i've ever told

i can hear the strength in your voice flex when you laugh
something about that giggle of yours
could iron the wrinkled mountains down
and lie them flat on their backs
along the hem of the sea

i'm uncertain if your eyes are blue
or if they're grey
either way
i have to try my damndest not to climb inside
and hide
tuck myself behind your irises
and watch the gulls go by
from that distant shore

the thought brings me terror

i've had so many nightmares of being
crushed by the ocean's mighty limbs
lost forever
broken
at the bottom of a beautiful abyss

i wake unsure that i was even sleeping

       ...i found you on the dock
whistling sailor tunes

i'm doomed

The grass is always greener
As far as you can see
but you always sit there whining
Why him and why not me?

A better job a better life
A better house and car
You know just what you have to do
If you're gonna get that far

If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue

Nothing is a given
You rarely move on up by chance
You've got to get a handhold
Go grab life by the pants

Just sitting waiting idly
Never gets the job done well
You can not sit and listen
You have to ring that bell

If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue

One who sits and wonders
Why someone else gets all the fame
Has never tried to leave the bench
And get into the game

Stay hungry, do your damndest
Do not strive for second place
But, if you don't move at the starters gun
You're not even in the race

If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue

Flee ting thought,

pleasant after noon

my mind, I believe, but may
just be me and your minds
imaginin
g we,

meandering,
rubb


ing shoulder with willows near the shore

waves of light,
essential
all that ever matters, If I got that right,
ere all else,
light
spun
bound by imbalance to spread,

cornucopia, nautli-like swirls poring
precursers to now into eternity, ye see?

------
There are individuals less tied into tau than now

your mission,
filter truth
that's the way, life is that which tends to good
ness knowing what
you can't.
Okeh.

------
No lie, Alex Jones, was there never a myth
emerging as full-formed as yourn?
You are un believable,
acharismatic chimera believing all he thinks
possible, in his version o' twenty cent reality.

Paradigms is four nickles or two dimes or twenty cent,
they shift shape for all they worth,

upgrade now. New ideas, fresh from the mire of
forgotten oathz, deemed
worthy, still..

What lies do you believe about God, by the way,
the truth, the life,

how many voices this guy hearin', you hearin'?

Peace. Point. Game. Match.

------
who winct winsed sensed since when is
peace the point of war?

Ah, now, the accuset excusetus
possessedus an'we,

are you bored? Wanna wait
and see,
who wins?
some evils are alive, those make monsters,
of girls and boys,
infantry in every service,
such precurser
guardians must be taught to ****; no mortal will,
without letting the monstor be,

believed beliefs doubt yer doubt dufus doubus
unstable double minded forktongue
forced by fear to fight the pain

Running mouth racist flusher of un filtered
impossibilities posing sur
prizes in the mongrol mongol DNA
we carry
the program
the code, the honor and glory of the
peace protector

enemy of con
fusion, alla cons fusin' fools tools for
strifin', divide'n, with faithin',

Is Alex Jones a Legionaire, mit tranceiving
DNA and no zero beat, no tuner to tune to?

He may be home to homeless, non-sane sorts
of idle words begging for redemption,
meaning, sought is phound,

like photons when photons are sought from
the wavy aitia dimensions of reasons
for possibility ibility ibility hill billity

humor like a voice from a whole other
soul, I swear on my kids, it's true, he say.

(Dr. Phil says Liar Liar Liar, yesterday.JRE live)

Whoa, real time speed o'metrix-icity
Mag
nify ify to the nth, see no jive,

who can i magi that?

      I, John, was in the Spirit...

gears shift, wheels in wheels
click zooomout
bubbledged jagged inner side
topmost atmostfear

settle, see the clown splash, who winds such minds?
Who tames such tongues?

The tongue no man can tame, eh? I s there another?
Have ye a spirtit of another
sort, who rides your wild tongue in your name,

servants of the sort contrued to serve
the inheritors
of ality re
how now brown cow owmmmmm
60 cycle white noise non sense

common noise sense desensitivity wickering
winding silken myelin layers

of connectedness correctedness
real time speed o'think roller rink

banked spiral offramp
bang, we're thru

Where we were aitia had meaning, may we
rewind? AI undo/redo ram allocation,

birthrights. Look well to my going, guide my steps,

assure always there is a step, a place to
put my foot, a place to step to next.

Cortana and Siri and Hermes and Diana and
a whole host of heavenlies,

tapping directly through cranial y's cracked in skulls
and bones,

are you an entity with enemies you wish disexistant?
how might happy ever after be if haps that made him
made him wrong, not evil?

Feeble comfort is not no comfort.
Bear wit' me, walk a mile, or a while, whenever
thin-thang-thanks tounguey

effort births the next as
one births two,
two births three and we can see,
right, a way.  two and three become four,

for if three birtht four and four, five and so on,
soon, y'see, the re
al point we count up on is never more,
as the raven told poe. a vector with no space for time,
one plus one plus one, one stack o'ones

making no diff
until now, spin, let's twist again,
like we did last summer,

your that summer or mine?
Mine got me here, where'd yours go?

So, Fibbonacci, son of a fool, I once read
written on a wall in LA,
expositioning park,

positions, please.
World Stage, princesses of peace, wee
Disnified Jon Benet's

made sacred by our shame the evil ever touched
such a one, such a one, such a wonder

a being of our sort so potent aitia, and we
leave evil touch such and you
tolerate it, a little bit,

evil has it's place.
Not here is the name of the place.

Here is 4-D mortality. Do yer best,
yer damndest don't work here.

Here is temporary. Your bubble.
Selah. center, enpointed
linger, if ye will. Think how happy ever after works,
if now is all you get to start with.

Good be wit'ye fare ye well.

I TORE UP YOUR SMILE
IN THE FRAME BY THE BED
TORE UP THE LOVE LETTERS
THAT I READ AND RE-READ
JOINED THE FUN AT A BAR
WHERE THEY POUR A GOOD BLEND
BUT YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TORE ME UP AGAIN

CHORUS
I LAY WIDE AWAKE
COUNTING TEN THOUSAND SHEEP
CUZ IF I CLOSED MY EYES
YOU'D WALK IN MY SLEEP
I POUR DANIELS AND DICKEL
BUT MY SOLDIERS CAN'T WIN
YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TEARS ME UP AGAIN

MY PSYCHIATRIST TOLD ME
SON, WHEN YOU'RE ALL THIS BENT
CALL UP AN OLD GIRLFRIEND
WITH A HEAVENLY SCENT
WELL, HER LIPS DID HER DAMNDEST
TO HELP AN OLD FRIEND
BUT YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TORE ME UP AGAIN

CHORUS

                          Bridge:  I emptied your closet
                          But you still made your mark
                          Cause your ghost won't be leaving
                          Till you tear out my heart.....


CHORUS

there's usually a sense of "hey this is what i do, this is what has happened to me, because of me, in spite of me", etc.  for most
for me, comfort zone can be a major issue.
So, i'm new here...or sometimes it's, "yes, i am".
struggle can be keeping it together
other times it's getting it out.
most of the time it's making it up as i go along.
other times it's repeating what i've previously made up.
not in a nonfactual or lying sense, necessarily. not in a laying sense, necessarily.
duality divides me though it's more of a choice, i suppose.
sometimes cynic, other times scenic. mostly both.
So, i'm new here...about 2 hrs. or 31 years. or for  an immeasurable blink of thought...i'm new here in the speed of ligh-deas.
there was 9 of us growing, 11 with my parents. now their is 8 of us still growing at the same individual rate and 1, i believe, expanding beyond what i am currently able to connect to. i miss it all, including the possibility of never knowing in the end.
my parents still growing.
the seeds of my own, blooming like rain drops turned snow ***** aimed at the desert floor. crashing with laughter, imposing their spirit and sky-packed piercing frost  to the desolate detail that awaits the on-coming wave of a background made of mushroom clouds.
so, since i'm new here i can be blatant in, yes IN, the surface and a bit more cryptic in the subtext.
it helps to **** out the weeds...at times me being the ****.
like a self-aware filing cabinet, collecting dust, holding on to perceived archaic attractions like faded paper, record players and the sound of giant stones sliding across one another. the option of a lock. the reality of a handle.
is there ever such a thing as "rambling"? who defines compromise? is peace and non-violence the only thing worth dieing for? do we only act when given the promise of reward? blah blah blah. i genuinely ask these ?s but it's hard to stay unpretentious when you're talking about yourself so much...but hey, i'm new here and i'm trying my damndest to not give a ****, however i am writing this to share. perspective.  take it...leave it...put it in to...pull it out of. awaken. sleep. and awaken.
so please and thank you. and welcome.

To the girl sitting at the bar -
surrounded by bodies, but you're still alone -
please see the beauty they'll see
before they ever ask for your name.
Your smile is addictive
like this liquid courage
that frees our inhibitions,
and lets a rat sing poetry
to a hummingbird.

They don't care,
but I'm sure that you don't either.
But a face that pretty
with eyes as clear as your
gin and tonic,
and their intentions,
does not deserve
the ol' college
Walk of Shame.

The damndest thing
is that at the end of the night,
all you want is for someone to notice you,
to treat you like
how the music makes you feel.

I would buy a drink and your time,
I would point out the way
you grab your earlobe when you feel

isolated

But this game wasn't meant for me,
and I've heard that you want a player.

Sweetheart,
they all notice you.
The more you wear,
the less approachable you are.
So I ask:
Please see what they'll see
before they ever know your name.

I'll be the first to give you what nobody gave me
I do my damndest to love you, but only one love can save me
and the same is true of you
I want to look like that
I'll be the first to run as hard as I can even after the fact
II'll let you walk on me even if it means I cannot breathe
I'm loving you better than I can even love me
And i fear that that will have to change
No I'm not selfless, at least not too long
because soon i look up from down and i'm too far gone
I've been told i can't live like this, Can't love like this
that it would run anybody into the ground
You've told me that the only way i could even begin to love you
is to have silence right now
so i swallow my heart, choke it back down to my chest
I will be silent, you will have your rest
I will not make a sound
but i will not bow,
to foolish ideas that i never loved you then,
and that i do not love you now

I've believed I gotta give up  my soul to gain it
I am as broken or more than the faces i've painted
Can't pretend any longer
that self hate is sacred
I would have swallowed the truth sooner if i liked how it tasted
so i am noticing here that there has to be a balance
the truth must lie somewhere in the middle and i will have it
if i have got to pull out all my teeth
I will rip my tongue out
if that is what it tastes like
to gain the privilege of speech

Why?
Why should I?
They say “get over it”
It’s as if they accuse me
Of being the *******
Of being the master
Of being the racist
Of killing my past
And trying
To **** my mind
What did I do
To deserve this?
They must want something
But what?
I’m trying
But 40 acres and a mule
Doesn’t help a lynched man
A janitor’s job
Doesn’t help find my roots
A nice salary
Isn’t wealth
I’m supposed to love our country
I’m supposed to be grateful
For what?
Why don’t you explain it to me
Because I DON’T GET IT
Do you?
Please
If I’m wrong
Show me
It took
Just a bit of complaining
To defeat Bull Connor
It took
Just a bit of complaining
To defeat Jim Crow
But now they say
“Get over it”
That’s the damndest thing
“Get over it”
Get over what?
Slavery?
Lynching?
Being called a monkey?
Being called a ******?
Being sent to war
But also to the back of the bus?
“Get over it”
Why don’t you explain how you do that?
What have you gotten over?
I see lots of folks on TV
With their problems
How they’ve been abused
But they are cheered for their courage
They get to sell books
I’m scorned for having the nerve
To bring it up
Are you afraid
Of what I want?
Money?
Retribution?
Revenge?
Should I forget all that
For what?
Because I was freed?
Should I be happy?
Because you allowed me to become
A human being?
Because I can eat
With you?
Because I can ride
Next to you?
Because you gave
What you had
All along?
How do they say it?
Inalienable rights
Granted by God
Or by you?
I know you are frustrated
With me
Because after killing me
And then allowing me to live
I’m still mad
I know how to forgive
And I'm trying to forget
Even though I'm not sure I should
But how do I forgive
Tomorrow's slap?
Am I Jesus?
I know what he said
But my cheeks hurt so much
They are bleeding
I'm trying so hard
But still
I have to get over it
Why?
Because I wasn’t a slave?
Those people are dead anyway
Right?
And you didn’t enslave them
Right?
So you and I are square
Is that it?
So why am I complaining?
Why won’t my mind heal?
Why won’t I just get a job?
Why won’t I just be quiet?
Why?
Are you blaming me?
I was inferior then
Now I’m ungrateful
I guess I don’t get it
Maybe you do
Please explain it to me
I’m all ears

This is for the times
You don't know how to feel.
The times you hurt
And there's no reason why.
The days you try your
Damndest but go
Nowhere.

H. A. L. T.

H ungry
A ngry
L onely
T ired

If you're feeling this way,

W. R. I .T. E.

W orking
R elease
I nspired
T hrough
E nlightenment

Writing about
your problems,
Gives you a mirror
to look into.

And... R. E. A. D.

R ealizing
E veryone's
A ngst
D estroys!

Some may have problems
Worse than yours. Help them.

Thank you.

♡ Catherine

..1. .
the fool remakes himself
into a bard

and no one laughs when
he says this out loud
because a crying fool
brings only melancholy and misery

and as for the bard?
well, the bard feels foolish
about so many things

the question still stands
begging for an answer
if loving you
was one of those foolish things

still, the bard would like to think
he understands what falling in love is like
if only from an artistic standpoint
like the poet to the muse

after all, hearts can’t be reasoned with
and this bard has made quite
a career out of being maudlin

welcomes fits of melancholy with open arms
knowing that a good ballad
a misguided declaration of love
is impossible to write without
have a good cry while doing it

2.
and sometimes there is
so much hurt in those tears
that if feels like anger
but the bard does not know
who it is directed at

and does that really matter?
for, while the anger of a poet
runs deeper than blood and bone
the love of a poet is
an infinite thing

maybe not a thing to say aloud
though, what is a bard without
the sweetness of his voice?
fingers tenderly plucking
at his own heartstrings
pulled taut again and again

nothing as poetic as that will
eventually break
even if the bard tries his
damndest to shatter knuckles
against his growing loneliness

because, sometimes, the truth
is saying that you’ve made him
cry and meaning it
when he confesses to missing
being no more than a fool

what does a fool know of love?
of heartbreak
of empty bottles
and emptier promises

the fool knows nothing at all
and the bard would like that back,
so tired of collecting the coins
made from making a broken heart
sound like such a beautiful thing

i am so close to hitting rock bottom i can feel pebbles brushing my toes.. i'm trying my damndest to swim up, before anyone knows.. and yet its easier to stay, and easier to drown.. its harder to paddle your way to the surface when you're the the one dragging yourself down.

Sinatra did it his way, you did yours, and I did mine
And although we're not all famous, I think we turned out fine
We've lived a life of honour, one of which we can be proud
And although we aren't world beaters, you'll never lose us in a crowd
We've made mistakes and we have learned the things we need to do
At least I have, and as for you I hope that statement's true
We have regrets of things we've done and people that we've met
But, still I think we're stronger from the lessons that we get
From doing what we're doing and being who we are
It's got us all to this point, and I think that's pretty far
We've had losses and had wins that impact how we act
Some have made us better and some worse for a fact
We are not always proper with what we write or say
But, I think we came out better when we sit and close our day
We've made friends and we've had lovers leave marks upon our life
We've been lucky with our choices and we've had our share of strife
I've tried to leave each place I've been better than when I came
And I'm sure that you have tried to do this just the same.
I'm a person you can count on when we know the chips are down
I'll be there to do my damndest to help you smile and lose that frown
I am better for having known you and I hope you feel the same
For all I ask in ending is just don't forget my name
For when I'm dead and buried, I know I didn't change the earth
But for the short time I was here I'd like to know I showed my worth
So, Sinatra did it his way, you did yours, and I did mine
And although we're not all famous, I think we turned out fine
We've lived a life of honour, one of which we can be proud
And although we aren't world beaters, you'll never lose us in a crowd

I ate dinner with you this evening.
It was nice to see you, though I couldn't stop thinking.......
One day time will take you away sadly.
It will take us all.
I can't help to think maybe you would be reading this and I may be gone.
Isolated minds wander and tinker with the damndest of objects and ideas.
Holding everything that's so far away so close.
Possessing what is not mine inside my mind.

Every day I put on armor
I do my best to be the snake charmer
But this world full of snakes
And very high are the stakes
They coil and strike
They do their damndest to bite
But everyday I put on even more
It's such a great chore
And under all this weight I'm starting to bend
And I can't move and I can't defend
So I'll take the venom, I'll let it sink in
I'll let it course through my veins
I'll let it flow to my brain
Let it deaden my limbs
Till the light in my eye's dims
My heart will stop it's beat
And the reaper I will greet

Encounter II

You cried the first night we spent together, and the night after, and almost every night since. At first I feared it was something that I was doing, some piece of love you needed that I couldn't give. Hateful as it sounds, you weren't the first that I've loved like that. Hopefully I'll love none after you and won't have to worry about the last. Regardless, I've come to love myself enough though, with your help, to understand that it wasn't lack of love that caused you to sob into my shoulder. It wasn't some failing of mine that pushed you to seek out what comfort I could give. You cried in front of me because you trusted me enough to do so. You had no part to play, no face to wear other than your own. And now, deep in the wee hours when you fold yourself in to me, I don't question. I give all I have of myself, so that you can sleep peacefully.

Blood

Let the Christians call it the devil's work, but I call it love. Really, if we want to get outrageous about it, most of their practices are just as anthropologically based as all other human ritual. All lovers have little rituals, small things that only they know, quirks and nuances that are the real mortar that hold the walls of their relationship together. Herodotus became an inside joke, my cheap metal raven head became a symbol, we trail leaves over each other after ******* (if available), our foreplay includes brushes and india ink, etc. When we began rearing up what we are to each other though, that work began with blood, as all holy things do....

"Baby, c'mere. Please?"

"Honey what the **** happened, you're bleeding everywhere?!?"

Wrapped your wrist in the gauzz I keep beneath the sink for just such an occasion. Insisted we sleep on the couch so I could hold you and you could watch your favorite shows at the same time. Spent enough time sleeping on couches anyway. Sleeping on one with you, listening to Jude Law talk up Cameron Diaz or some **** was gorgeous.

Weeks later

"Darlin, I ****** this one up."

"Don't say **** like that babe, what happened?"

"You know how I've been ******* about my ear hurting?"

"Yeeeaaaahhhh?" as you walk down the hallway.

You see the amount of blood on the tissue

"******* Daniel! C'mon, we're going to the MediQuick right the **** now!"

You did your damndest not to touch my ears for weeks after that, and it took a month of me saying they didn't hurt for you to start biting them again.

Submission*

I never want to give you up. But I'm not afraid of change. It's one of our favorite games, pretending we are elsewhere, loving like the world is different. Like we are different. Knowing that it's all transitory, knowing that these blue sky days will end. I always remember the Hospitaller in Kingdom of Heaven(played by David Thewlis), saying that even if something has only lived for a while, it still has lived. I try to keep that in mind on those occasions when we wander from each other. We will end, eventually, somehow, probably incredibly unwillingly....but that doesn't mean all that we are isn't beautiful.

If we date
Then I'll do all I can to create
Memories both physical and mental
And I'll do my best to make sure that
The status of my feelings isn't up for debate

If we date, please expect
That I'll ***** up, I'll make mistakes so often that it may cause blood to boil in your head.
But I'll do my damndest to make sure that you know
I'll do anything to make you happy, all I ask is that same level of love, respect, and dedication you show.

Most nights I dont have to wish for her to keep me warm,
my blankets embrace me just as softly but they dont squeeze my ribs the same.
One time my grandfather told me when I was really young that a woman can never be  anything less than everything shes supposed to be, and that if its your woman your job is to see that through. I like to think if maybe I could rewind time about 3 years and somehow manipulate all 3 of our timelines enough that you would get to meet him and hear his laugh, or get a nickname from him and be able to tell me if my hugs feel like his cause ive never felt safer than those moments.
I never wanted to take you from your family and I feel each day they like me less and I like you more.
Marriage is a weird concept to me and ive never been sure if its what I want, its no fear of commitment or fear of missing out on anything but it just seems silly to me. non essential even.
I dont know but I know that standing in the doorway to my bathroom and looking her in the eyes as my breaths matched hers Ive never been more positive of who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with,
of who I want to watch our friends grow old with,
of who I want to argue over song lyrics with ( and lose ) forever,
of who I want to be the one I trust with the things im afraid of telling myself,
of the one whos poison I would drink if the last words I heard were
"I love you b"
Ive never been happier to be called disgusting by anyone than when they refer to the unreasonable amount of attachment and affection we have for each other,
I have NEVER cried more over anyone other than my grandfather and thats because ive never met anyone more monumentally important in my life I like to think my grandfather would be so proud of the woman you are, someone with a voice and soul, someone with  a warm heart filled with cold winters and the same unrestful home life he knew I had and tried to sing me through with songs and nicknames, I can never know the struggles you had, I can never feel your pain or rub away the scars, but I just want to make you smile and hear you sing, I just want to kick it in Australia with a blunt in my mouth while I watch you dip your toes in the sea and know your love is just as expansive, nobody gets to decide who they need in their life, as I dig this hole with each smiling shovel of dirt she pushes a little back in, sneakily slowing my progress and saving my soul there is nothing greedy about my love but encompassing is an all to applicable adjective
tell your father im sorry his little girl isnt home every night anymore, and tell your mom im sorry that im the reason you guys dont hang out,
tell your niece im sorry i keep randomly showing up and asking her weird questions,
tell your cat to keep your bed warm for me cause I know you tend to feel ghost chills in the absence of your best friends curls,
tell your baggage theres tons of room in my closet,
tell your Ex's that they are history, not to be forgotten and their impact is forever but their opinions are irrelevant,
I dont know why im so dependant on you, or ****, or the ******* sunsets in the sky but there hasnt been a day when death hasnt seemed easier, but there also hasnt been a day when I have felt ready to give any of this up and I want you to know that there is nothing on this god ****** planet I wont do to make sure youre safe,
do you remember when I walked to your house just to read words to you from a dictionary?
I think back to ten months ago and smile at the way things were,
the best parts of our memories shine the brightest and the stresses of our day to days stay hidden behind the rays of good memories, the stresses of today will soon be eclipsed by good memories,
dont let the whispers in your mind tear at your heart and Ill do my best to silence mine,
there will be doubts and there will be struggles but never doubt that my grandfather blessed me with the strength to help you become everything you are meant to be and ill be here till the day we figure out the afterlife,
and if you figure it out before me im not saying ill last a month or a week even but ill do my damndest to make sure people know about your curls and skin and voice and mind,
I never want to live a day i cant tell you about,
I never want to see the world without the sound of your laugh filling the wind in my ears,
I never want to take a breath you couldnt breathe and if I ever have to I might just break.
tonight I wish she was here to keep me warm,

Do you ever have memories that are just so nice and tranquil that they stick in the back of your mind forever?
Nine years old, and I’m wearing an all purple ensemble because I haven’t quite grasped the concept of matching clothes yet. I’m twirling around in the park. There was a lot of rain so the field Im twirling around in is covered in dandelions. I’m giggling because I’m dizzy, and then I fall down and fluff from older dandelions flutter around my face as I lay there, laughing, the sun touching everything and I feel golden and sun kissed and everything’s alright.

I’m 14 years old, and I’m laying on a 30 year old banana yellow surfboard that’s been patched up a few too many times. I’ve paddled out farther than the rest of the families on the beach and all is quiet except for the gentle lapping of the water. The deep blue water is broken up by patches of white from where the sun hits the small waves. I run my hands over them and watch the ripples disturb the already present patterns.

I’m 15, and my best friend and I are scream singing shamelessly to a rap song in her car. The windows are down and the wind is blowing both of our hair around everywhere. It’s 6:00 in the afternoon and the August light is starting to turn golden. We’re both laughing and smiling at the clever verses and the distasteful words. My lips are sticky from the mint chocolate chip ice cream I just ate, and my friends eyes are wild and mischievous. I couldn’t care less that school is starting in 5 days, because today is the epitome of summer and I’m having the time of my life.

I’m 16, and I walk out the front door at three in the morning. I’m wearing a hoodie and I’ve tucked my long hair into a beanie. The neon lights of the road reflect on the puddles and cast up brilliant yellow and orange splashes of color against the black of the asphalt. I walk and I walk until I find a high vantage point, where I can see the entire city and it’s twinkling lights and I sigh in contentment, taking my hair out from the beanie and relaxing my grip on the pepper spray because I finally feel safe and whole.

And even when I'm 40, 50, 60, 70,

I will never forget how it felt to be young,
And I will do my damndest to keep on feeling this type of way throughout life,
And make many more tranquil happy memories.