The city sounds of ordered chaos, the constant wave of people crossing back and forth like a human tide. Strangers cut in and out of their tiny groups and barely miss colliding. Honks and bleats hasten the crowds pace as they race to cross the road. Some people stare at their phones, others watch the road but no one looks directly at another human being. Somewhere, near here and in-between there just off to the side a stranger sits mumbling, barely coherent.

“Watch me.”

The age lines run so deep into his skin that they might as well be built in. White stubble paints a drawn slightly sunburnt face. Deep dark blue eyes scan the city life for some unknown relief.
A red line catches his eyes, followed by a childlike voice singing playfully. “Watch me mommy.”

Tiny matchbox cars race around a shallow hole. The little cars cross dips and dirt ramps increasing the young boy’s excitement, as he mimics his favorite show. They crash into a partially exposed root. “Brrckkkeeech bccccch.”A fake explosion sounds. Dusk begins to fall as the cars settle into their makeshift cereal box garage. Smiling and dusty the boy crosses the small road, then the tiny parking lot, and comes home.

Long ***** white hair falls messily across the man’s worn face. All but a few awkwardly placed teeth are gone. Some are yellow while others are darker and rotting. His breath reeks. The emaciated figure feels the cramps of hunger pains. A brown speckled haze clouds his vision, followed by a slight coldness and dizziness creeping over his body.

“Watch me.”

Cardboard swords clash in a titanic battle of good versus evil.  Until the young victor jumps upon his sawhorse stead. A yowl of pain sounds as his tiny sac is smashed. The pain jolts upwards and inwards causing temporary paralysis. Thin legs scrape the wooden brace dragging chips of paint down with him as he falls off his fake saddle. The victor is defeated by pain. A few seconds later the internal pain passes and he is up and at it again, running straight for a large tree. At the last second he swerves barely avoiding a painful collision. In his mind a red cape swooshes behind him as he flies off to save metropolis.

The summer heat draws pit stains on the old man ***** orange tee. The neckline is stretched and has an almost circular pattern of moisture. Barely able to move, his sick stench draws the attention of flies. Bugs buzz by almost as frequently as strangers walking by.

“Watch me.”

Tears fall from the tiny child eyes, as he stumbles in pain. A deep **** runs red with lines of falling blood. His mother picks him up and carries him to the neighbor’s car. She whispers soft word of reassurance. The tears eventually stop.

The man clenches his chest. Pain permeates his being. His breath is lost. He stumbles falling harshly against the cold grey cement sidewalk. Tears fall. He reaches for strangers pleading weakly for their assistance. A foot smashes against his left side, causing more pain to flame up; while forcing him to edge of the sidewalk. The crowd keeps moving.
A stranger snarls “get out of the way you ***.”

“Watch me.” The old man whispers as he recalls his mother’s warmth. Soft kisses planted on his forehead. Sitting in the dark living room safely snuggled next to his mother as a scary storm rages violently against a small house.

“Watch me.” He cries. His voice, obscured by the city, fades and is forgotten.

You make me feel alive and I wanted to paint every sunset myself to match the emotions I felt each day

You make me feel alive as if I had the power to reach out and grasp the stars

You make me feel alive like I could messily splatter light onto a blanket of darkness and suddenly I had created the night sky.

You make me feel alive to the point where my heart was racing faster than the shooting stars that dance across our world

I guess I saw her at the third and final bar I went last night. You would have liked watching her. Her face cut like stone -- a reincarnation of an Easter Island statue -- and like those statues, if you kept digging I'm sure she had a body underneath.

From my end of the bar, it looked like she ordered a gin and tonic. She barely drank it, but that's not to say she didn't touch it. She stabbed the ice repeatedly with a cocktail stirrer as if to say give me something to look forward to.

You were right about riding into bars lone wolf. It only works during the afternoon. That's all there is then. Thirsty wolves. But at night, everyone is paired off neatly and wrapped into each other like pretty little presents with shiny red bows.

I agree about the crippling lack of ***. But unlike you, I wouldn't call myself frustrated. Just crippled. And I know if you'd been at the bar, you would have told me to approach Easter Island, but I've been lonely so long that I've grown addicted to the feeling. It's a blanket of sorts. And it's been cold lately.

A man sat next to me at the bar. Corduroy jacket, red sweater over white collared shirt. His hair messily spiked, his face messily shaved, and he kept chatting up a sad-eyed woman in a sadder black dress. I don't remember much of the conversation because I was trying not to eavesdrop. He did say something about time though. He said it was all a straight line. That's the reason we forget things. Progress. Progress makes the people we used to be peel off. The molted skin gets carried off by the wind. I thought you'd like that. Though I don't agree with it.

If time is a straight line, why is what I had for breakfast right next to a three-year-old memory of sleeping beside Karen two weeks after our divorce. It all seems disjointed to me. Not random. But at least partially broken.

Easter Island wore purple pants. I forgot to mention that. She also had a bronze crucifix around her neck. And long brown curls. The cross would have been off-putting if I'd seen her a few months ago, but as you know I'm trying to fix myself. A little dose of religion might be good for me. If nothing else at least a dose of wild kindness.

I apologize for talking so much about myself. So, return the favor. This morning, I read from that Callahan book you got me. The chill in the air made me wish you were in the bed beside me. Reading over my shoulder. Though that was in another window of time. One next to my memory of you putting cinnamon in the coffee grounds before you started a brew.

For what it's worth, I miss you.

You’re six feet tall and more feet apart
from anyone you claim to be close to.
Struggling to breathe and a defunct heart,
in denial of prophecy; inevitably it came true.

You didn’t even pretend you ever cared for me,
we both know we’re not the ones you wanted to see.
If only you could realize what was important in life,
maybe you wouldn’t face the close in strife.
If only you could realize what this was all about,
maybe your funeral wouldn’t be cardboard cut outs.
In your last breath of air,
was there regret or despair?

It’s the ones that you don’t peg for depth
that seem to never be fully understood.
I’ve watched how easily they’ve wept,
and immediately reverted back to wood.

You didn’t even pretend you ever cared for me,
couldn’t care less; we’re supposed to be family.
If only you could realize what was important in life,
then you wouldn’t have replaced your kids and wife.
If only you could look back on all those years,
maybe you’d hold your kids instead of your beers.

No invite for dining with the dead,
no faking pleasantries unpleasantly.
Breaking promises along with the bread,
and never present even presently.
No invite for dining with the dead,
ignoring a mess while eating messily.
Smelling copper while tasting lead,
feeling separated both separately.

In your last breath of air,
did you notice we weren’t there?
In your last breath of air,
did you start to care?

No invite for dining with the dead,
no faking pleasantries unpleasantly.
Ignoring last call and ignoring bed,
my mental exhaustion is kicking in mentally.
No invite for dining with the dead,
ignoring a mess while eating messily.
The scene will remain within my head,
and my refusal to be desperate has grown desperately.

He grasps stardust in his
Hands
Sand they turn truly lovely
In one hand 

The edges glint golden rusty and Brown they turn

The color of lovely shriveled  late 
Autumn leaves
They sink soundly to the ground
 
Smell of raw;
Earthy taste moist like rich bread and wine
 So red his lips have not 

The look of innocence
Stripped  naked like bark chiseled wood

How I would love them forever

My vain endeavour

Still he lays partially
Amongst the blotchy patch of shade as

The
Tree 
Lovingly sways 
To the sound of his

Coos
Darling he sleeps as the Sheep watch over him

My little Sheppard boy
Dreamingly sound
May rippling waters of your subconscious mind settle to shore

Tides emerge in deepest
Blue
Violently crash into the
Crimson colored  rocky edge of the 
Stone face cliff
Now faced with thick
Cumulonimbus clouds that 
Cloud the dawn's last fiery 
Light

Streaks of lightening
Silhouette whip upon his
Face and like thunder the
Lions 
Roar not in pain 
But in vigorous anger as
The ringmaster bows at the
Choking applaud of the
Painted audience

The wind unweaves grassy tangles in your hair
Tormenting  suitors 
Tease; 

You messily please
Imperfectly perfect that you are able to 
Appeal as effortlessly
Dressed in natures blend
Like a jar of 
Roasted nuts
Of assorted trail mix

Still
You lay there 
Decorated in earth's blankets of roots Grass
Twigs leaves

Oh
How it hurts to leave
I'd sit here loving you

Instead 

Twist peering down upon
Deepest desires
Swept in eternal sleep

Longingly
I join your slumber
Drift into dream where I 
May wake up finding you
Beside me
Where sleep steals me upon
Your shoulder 

Warmth of arms lightly
Grasped
Dawn red as a match in the
Distance slowly 
Smothered
Surrendering to nights cold
Silence

But the stars 
Whispers of compliments to
The moon

Each night loved you kindly
Each star a kiss upon your
Cheek

May the stars love you Sweeter than they have Loved me

But darling I've loved you 
Forever

A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.

Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.

Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -

At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.

3rd Grade, Awards Assembly
Children are filed into the cafeteria in almost orderly lines
Giggling about silly jokes that make no sense to adults
But for awards, they are silent, and expecting.
Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, finally
The little girl with her shiny black shoes waits for her award telling her that she qualifies as smart
And she receives perfect attendance

8th Grade, School Computer Room
Awkward preteens set in blue plastic chairs
Friends clumped together around a single screen
"Secretly" googling ***** like it's a crime, though everyone knows
But in the very back
The girl with her black bag full of books checking her grades online
Has her nose to the monitor and worry in her heart
Because just perfect attendance makes her a disappointment.

Junior Year, Home Bathroom
Soapy water soaks the floor and into a dollar store rug
The bath is half empty and tinted a rusty shade of red
And sitting on the floor with her knees to her chin, carving A+ into the scarred skin of her arm
Is the girl, almost a woman, with her eyes messily ringed in black, who doesn't dare cut too deep.
Killing herself would mean losing her perfect attendance.

I try my hand at poetry,
I am no great talent.
I write words that flow endlessly and messily
from my heart, merging with the words
my brain creates in its boredom.

I try my hand at being a girlfriend,
I have no great talent at this either.
For I often ruin my own good standings,
as if to stand only a little higher than my partner.

I try my hand at helping,
though I do not extend it as often
as I like. Most days it is hard enough
taking my own hand.

I try my hand at greatness,
though it cannot be measured
until the day comes where the only
thing my hand tries is resting for
eternity.

“There is a bitter sting to reality, an unfairness to it all.” These words echo in the young boys ears. Holding what is left of his sanity, he traces the damage; rubbing the now forming bump on his forehead. Fingers circle the discolored flesh then press hard against it till he winces in a jagged remembrance.

He still feels the full force of her bible belt beating down upon him. Open hands smacking him with the made up words of her own book of revelations.

“And the dead shall rise. To feast upon the unclean. “She ranted.

Now, the yellow superhero tee comes off slowly enough. She has stretched the neck of his favorite shirt. Of course he is partly to blame. He never should have had a favorite shirt. He tries to swallow, but his nerves force him to take two swallows for one. The first one descends halfway down his throat.  Catching his anxious breath the second swallow finally goes all the way, followed by a trickle of blood.

“It is what it is.” He thinks.

With soft poet hands he pulls a different shirt from the closet. His brown hair slides messily from the neck hole as the red wool rolls gently over is sore skin providing a small degree of comfort. Then he put his long goofy looking brown and darker brown jacket on.

“I’m done” he mumbles to himself, as he stuffs his journal, sketchpad, the book he is currently reading, and an extra set of cloths in his black back pack.

The white window pane vibrates with October winds. He slides it open, shimmying over and out into the frigid autumn night. A shiver crosses his skin. Then he closes the window as quietly as possible to avoid any more drama. His sad eyes scan the night trying to decide which direction is the right way for him to run away in. With no indication of which way will work best for him he turns left and starts walking.

A mile down the road he stumbles upon the remains of a partly chewed up possum. Empty eyes point deeply into the pine forest. The moist matted fur almost matches the road’s color perfectly.  Dark dry stains mark the grey road. Chunks of slimy viscera lay displayed from the flayed features of the decomposing creature.

In the distance he hears the howls of teenage boys.
“A bunch of screaming fools ******* around,’ he thinks. “I don’t need this ****.”

So, he turns off the road and heads into the trees. Brown pine needles break under his feet. The soft forest bed gives slightly beneath his treads leaving little footprints. As he scans the ground he notices that the earth is swimming with strange footprints.

With a little daylight left he finds the perfect spot to stop. A tree plays backboard to his tense and tired frame as he sits down to rest.

His mind turns to dreams of love. A female figure fills his thoughts. She is dark and lights. Pale skin, leather jacket, with raven black hair that shimmers in the night sparkling with the energy of infinity. She moves with all the destructive grace of Kali. She is a frozen skin scythe less death; Hopes and wonders mixed in with nightmare prophecies. Doom pervades his soul. He feels perfectly alone with no hope.

Which means it is the perfect time to write a poem. One line flits past then the next till almost the whole page is filled. Then he rewrites copying and improving. Till two pages later he is finally fixing the finished draft.

With the last bits of daylight he completes the poem’s final lines. Shivering and exhausted he decides it is time to find a place to sleep. He packs his backpack with all the finesse of a ninety year ******* boy and heads out into the night.

Suddenly he senses something moving behind him. A shadow crosses his path. Panic seizes him. Shady black tendrils run across the ground followed by the sounds of strangers moaning. He runs. The moonlight flickers fast behind the fading pines as he quickens his pace.
He stumbles into a clearing where the ground is punctuated by broken stones and white marble dust. Small monuments stand marking the past. Somewhere slightly off to the side a Sepulcher sits as a testament to a hundred years of death.

“How perfectly macabre, I’m in a cemetery at night in the bitter cold.” He thinks

The earth shifts and swirls beneath his feet like quicksand. Losing his footing he falls backwards. The contents of his backpack scatter haphazardly across the disturbed dirt.

A thin hand pierces the brown ground. Then an arm makes its way writhing from the soil searching for something. Boney fingers feel around until they fall upon a pen and paper. The pen scratches furiously on the pad.

The young man stutters trying to make out the horrible handwriting.

“g-g-get of-f-f m-m-y head.”

The earth tremors beneath his feet, causing him to jump back in fear. Then a skull ascends. Empty sockets stare menacingly at him. More of its body rises, until the full corpse form is free. The wind whistles through the rotten frame. The monstrosity turns his head and heads away. Shambling off into the night to frighten someone else.

A sigh of relief escapes the young man’s lips. His heart slows to a normal rhythm. The blank October sky fills his eyes. He laughs in gratitude, deciding to find a better spot to settle for the night.

Then a jaw chomps down on his skull. Rotten teeth shatter but the bony mouth still pierces his noggin. Red droplets drip soaking the journal pages. The poet screams. His voice fades slowly away, as he struggles. Dying in agony he becomes a feast for the undead horde. The red splattered page reads---




The Graveyard Poet
He walks without sleep
Restless and awake burning inside
With all of the secrets he keeps
His pen and his paper
Lay softly on broken ground
The dead are his keepers
Their stones stand scattered all around
So he put his pen to paper
Ink is turned to flesh
The words bleed into
Each other and start to mesh
Thus the graveyard poet is born
He writes with passion
His mind becomes a storm
His body begins to feel numb
But his heart is so warm
On and on from dusk till dawn
Words erupt from the poets pen
Still the cold bites bitterly
He stops only to turn the page and write again
Hours come and go in a blur
Until he can’t move his arm
Even he is unsure
Of what is wrong
His eyelids grow heavy
And soon he is asleep
Rest peacefully young poet
Now your secrets are mine to keep

makeup messily blurs the outline
of your face, the one the sun is
beating sandpaper ciphers across--
translated they reflect the cesspit
of the first smile I have meant
in months--please just caress
the entropy of this water-winged sunset,
you cannot swallow your shyness
by intimidating everyone into not
speaking to you and by god
I don’t want to hurt you but
I can feel a hot one.

if those who’ve known hell
never talk about it
and nothing much bothers them
after that
why do we talk circles
around each moonrise, exhale
leaden stories like smoke
and charred vapor
everyone tastes like brimstone
so why are you so afraid of
being beautiful, why am I
so afraid of my ligaments eroding,
and we are so *******
tragic ****-it
we’re ******* tragic
time blurs you
whipped the insomnia into
a frenzy
the way you kiss me
when the sun lurks backstage
waiting for her que makes it
okay for now not numb
so much because ******* was I
knife-fight numb. I can talk
about the hell with you the
other girl, not so much, the
tricky-***** was that she
made it go away but it
never really does does it?
just blurs the time so
it can fast-pitch the happy
out of your lungs, like
my me is still here, so maybe
we can rub selves
while the sun bears down
from behind her curtain
of starless sky.

He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.

"There is no poetic beauty in pain."
I am learning this slowly.
My hands still shake when it's past 2 in the morning
and breathing isn't easy most nights.
I am not poignant with my words
and some days it's hard to get out of bed.

This is my adolescence:
A tangled mess of dismantled almosts
and empty promises scribbled messily on the back of restaurant napkins.
It's stolen kisses in sleepy coffee shops,
failing chemistry,
driving recklessly,
and staying up late on lonely nights to watch the sunrise.

There are days where I'm convinced life shines
with a brilliance unknown to me,
so I continue on and live for those days.
Those days where breathing comes a little easier and I remind myself
that everything happens for a reason.
I hope you find these days where all you know is basked in a vibrance you've only read about.

Live for those days.
Live for me.

you knew my eyes
knew that they had been leaking, faulty, allowing my body to flood
with emotion
and then drain
messily, leaving black rivers to dry on my cheeks

but still, you shook me
with your anger
you allowed me to fill up again
but this time i burst

you are every midnight shot I should not have threw down my throat,
every syllable I should not have stammered out beneath
shy gazes and lowered eyelashes and chewed bottom lips.
you are every (in)coherent verse I could not keep
my shaky grip from messily scrawling across any blank page;
you are in every frustrated sigh,
every agitated run of fingers through messy hair,
every tear at 2am.

Imagine yourself
a linear expression of experience,
a long strip of film like
the kind in old projectors with the
sepiatic sputters and flickers--
yes! Imagine yourself a strip of film but
rolled up messily like
the earbuds in your pocket or
folding fitted bedsheets.
You are a movie and the filmstrip endpiece lies at your feet,
you are knots and coils and tangles and
if you were to lie down at the top of this mountain for a moment--just a moment!--perhaps
the wind would catch the loops of film and
you would feel yourself
unravel.

When we talked the other day at lunch
we were standing in the hallway
you holding my hands tightly
between yours
and a piece of paper crumpled in the
sweaty palms of mine
told me that your identity was
hope.

And I've been thinking about identity a lot lately.
How, for so long, I've felt like I had none.
I was a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
from people who's faces will never escape my memory
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

I believed that, if I had a word at all
my word would be something like
smothered, suffocated
lost, broken.
And, in a way, I guess it is.
But I think it's more than that, too.

I think that my word isn't just
right here,
right now.
It's the past, it's the future
it's what I have, and what I'll never possess
it's what I need, and what I crave
it's what makes me feel so much, yet feel nothing at all
it's what I'd do anything for, yet what I fear the most
it's safe, and it's dangerous
it's beautiful, and it's ugly
it's small, but so magnificent.

It's how I feel when my daddy holds me tight after a long day.
It's when my mom says she doesn't want to see me hurt.
It's why I always hold on a little too long when you wrap your arms around me.
It's an excuse for hurting myself in an effort to protect those around me.
It's what I say when there are no other words.

It's why I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
It's why I run away, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a little further.
It's why I text girls 300 miles away
but feel like she's right there beside me.
It's why I kiss boys in the rain at their parent's house
but, somehow, still doubt myself.
It's why I make promises I can't keep
but wish you wouldn't do the same.

It's why I laugh with you and cry without
It's why I hold your hand with my left and take pills with my right
It's why I read stupid books and write ****** poetry
It's why I believe in nothing but wish for something.

It's me, telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
And it's me, convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm not that important, anyway.

It's me, telling myself that if I had friends
they wouldn't leave me alone on a Friday night.
And it's me, telling myself that no one
would want to hang out with me, anyway.

It's stupid things
it's serious things.
It's stupid things taken too seriously
and serious things mistaken for stupidity.

It's the past
it's the present
it's the future.

It's what I want
what I need
what you give me.

It is lost
it is suffocating
it's shattered into a million pieces.
But it's also found
it's alive
it's messily put back together with a 6'3'' hot glue gun.

My word is perpetual
eternal
infinite
but so fleeting.

It's me
because I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday
sad, looking for joy in things big and small
a hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but so happy
I am identical, but somehow completely different
I am what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls
I am running across busy streets and standing on freshly painted front porches.

And so is my word.

It's me
but it's not
but it is.

I was convinced
that the English language
was too small
lacking
missing something.
But then I realized
it wasn't.

You told me who you were
and one day, it'll be my turn.
I am
love.

(I saw a piece titled "5 Things I Will Tell My Daughter" and I decided to write one, too~)

1. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but what about the hearts that hurt stronger, or grow colder? Do not let your heart grow cold... Dream, darling. Dreams can melt the ice and soothe the pain, their dreams of you gently wrapping your arms around their neck, and, speaking softly, as though they are afraid they will wake and you won't be beside them, the words fall from their lips, “I love you.” You reply, “I love you, too.” But then, we must remember: although all dreams end, the fire that is their soul cannot be put out by any force other than their own lack of will. Your soul will not lose its flame unless you stop pouring gasoline into your heart, until you stop gathering firewood from your limbs. Remember that it takes time to become the person you want to be. Do not, under any circumstances, give up.


2. You needn't believe that love is limited, for hearts expand endlessly. Remember that some women will call you a sinner, and some men will call you a saint. Love them both. Love the way that although goodbye means going away, going away does not necessarily equal a forgotten promise to return. Love the notes that you keep in the bottom of your dresser in a shoebox from 7th grade, love your favourite shirt, love your first video game, love your first romantic partner and love your last. Love red flowing dresses and sweatpants and above all, do not be afraid to love deeply, messily, and even predictably, because sometimes, predictability is okay.


3. You are a raging hurricane, an endless forest fire, a light autumn drizzle, the flicker of a candle flame, a brilliant lightning bolt and the house-shaking clap of thunder that follows. Do not allow anyone to undermine your worth, your being, your sentience, your magnificence. You are the world, and the moment you believe otherwise (because you will) is the moment when, if not I, then somebody else you care for, will be by your side with a can of gasoline and a few extra logs.


4. Do not spend your life in search of a place to call your own; instead, mould your skeleton into a home and place your soul behind your eyes; house galaxies, constellations, and all the infinities that you can hold inside your being and never let them go. When your skin starts to crack, pour grace into your wounds and brush the kinks out of your wings; find faith in yourself, at least, if not another omniscient being as well. Just remember: If you have faith, have it when the miracles don't happen, just as much as when they do.


5. Live for the experience of breathing deeply and loving carelessly.

To hold a pen, all trembling nib and leaking tip,
At your mercy, supple in your hands,
Over the skin of soon-to-be words, people and places:

Gently exploding ink bombs of which I cherish total control –
Until I have to let them go -
until they are released and left to their own free will.
They bend and curl
And I bend and curl with them – through a place of rubble and debris,
Of clear water on emeralds and grey, creamy smoke.
A wasteland – but far from empty – a silvery mire filled with all the things of this earth.
Something both post and pre-apocalyptic that smells of old wood and heady incense,
Nostalgia and new memories.

Accidentally, messily, flawlessly crafted.

I wait for more sporadic dark poolings,
And they happen within quick succession of one another;
Splaying,
Isolated limbs and drops of a purple chemical
Spreading, bleeding, dissolving
Over the grainy paper.

The page is torn and frayed at the edges
Where almost fabric-like fibres
Were unable to withstand the impact of a knife’s blade,
Ripping all the tiny seams which bind them together,
Coming apart,
Undone,
Strand by dusty strand.

What is finished, what is done –
Is what has been given kindness,
And settled to rest.
As if drunk, sleepy, disorientated but somehow acutely aware of exactly where you are.
The feeling of dizziness where everything is hazy, fuzzy, blurry –
Inducing a comfortable, ***** slumber
In an old *** and vanilla shop.
Aureate, bronze pearls slide over each other, silky and luke-warm,
As you peer through glass and lace,
The spheres chinking together, a thousand times over.

A pen held above the paper, now still and impassive.
It is mine and I am its,
And we stand alone on the corner of a pavement,
A streetlamp
Rendering the scene golden in the rain.

I can wash a dish SO GOOD...
So good, that you could eat off it...

I can fly a kite SO high, and a paper airplane SO fast and far you'd think...
You'd think I was  some kind of  a pilot

I listen to my music as I sleep.
I dream of green women abducting me.
I forget these dreams when I wake.
I tie my shoes before I fall on them.
I make less than average knots and fall on them anyways.

And I can do these things.
I can Fold a shirt SO Messily ...you'd think I had just thrown it on the floor.
Yes, I can iron my clothes SO unevenly you would think I'd  jumped out of a basket.
Because I did. Why? Because I am an Average person.

My !LIFE!! is Average.
My !CITY! is Average.
And yes..even my love is average.
I walk around my city with...wide eyes...but my head down.
Who can see me?
Who can I see? ...I walk. I go home. I work..and I eat...and then I ****. Average.
I wake up and I put my pants on one, two, no no FIVE! Five SLEEVES at a time.
I wear one sock and TWO sandals while making eggs in my apartment.
Why?
Well why not? I can do these things.
I am no superhero, I..am Average.

I loved you like a daughter but I can't forgive you as a woman
I sure hope you burns in hell but I can't say this out loud
Cause you are my father
But you were her husband first
And I can't change that no I can't change that.

I will never forget when you called her crazy
When she put up your cheating evidence in our faces / on the dinner table.
You laughed messily and denied it cause you are spoiled
It's the same old wives tale
Someone will end it up hurting badly
And it will be always be a woman

oh, drag
it's you again
i miss not having to see you
how i hate watching you move
the way you speak in that unsure, adorable manner
the way you grin and look down to avoid eye contact that I know you secretly desire
you always loved gazing into my eyes
but no longer
oh, how i hate you
im sorry but its true
the way you walk, confidently but with sincerity
the way your hair blows messily in the wind, its long and curly now (the way i like it)
all of it kills me
it was just so nice being away
i grew out of my heartbreak and found marvelous, interesting things and people to steal my time
but just when i make a new and wise revelation
you walk in
basically renewing all of the feelings that i had crushed and forgotten
and i think you know how much worse it is now
the fact that you sit right beside me
and the way we converse casually about our summer happenings so far
we act like were classmates
friendly, but with no history whatsoever
what we had
whatever we could have had
is gone
except for the hidden cravings that you attempt to hide and push away
because you think it must be better this way
because you believe that she
is the wiser choice
so now all we are is
"just friends"

you've got to be kidding me

Twirling and swirling and whirling
A flash of red whisps through the crowd of dull and funeral-like decor.
She spins aimlessly, messily through the practised, and utterly strictly ballroom dancers -
Their faces a monotany of emotionless control,
Their poise impeccable,
And only the tell-tale bead of sweat and counting under their breathe betrays the otherwise flawless act.

Again a flash of red, and the floor is filled with life...besides the robotic dancers (and I don't mean they were doing the robot) who were already in the midst of a rumba.
Her closed eyes lead her to and fro through the dancing dead,
Her wandering hands grasp at the music flowing through the air,
Although there is not a learned step to her unprepared jive and jiggle;
her passion and innocence are enough to let any shy observer know who the real master of salsa really was.
Her carelessness was enough to inspire anyone to dance as she did
-and to break the solid, conservative mentality of society
- and to break away from conforming to the norm,
And to be yourself, no matter what anyone really thinks,
Since even though everyone may judge you, there'll always be someone who thinks you bring life to the party.

I want to feel your skin graze mine
hot and lazy
in the summer afternoon
light and delicate

as if almost on accident
as if almost on purpose
as if almost in love

I want wet kisses that stain the curve
of my neck from the lingering presence of your lips
The breeze caressing and cooling the marks you've left behind
Trailing goosebumps up my spine

I want to feel your warm tacky fingers sticking to my thighs like you've just messily eaten something sweet
Moving like slow molasses
Melting me in the humid heat

I want to stay right there
with the summer sunlight trickling through the window blinds
With a dull sitcom on TV
The cued audience laughter
muted in my mind

Playing my faux innocence
in that dreadfully pleasurable
moment of yearning for you
forever

I racked my head for a poem;
some stack of words to say "good morning, pray you are well", but stacks swell and topple messily on my hands to your eyes, so

"Good
Morn-
   ing
Jaz-
  mean,
     cruel,
         fate
    to wake to
  one star,
and not
  another."

Nervous that way I take peanut butter from the jar
where blinking and licking overlap
messily and focus is the last thing on
my mind.

There, just there scooped
is where the thought
returns.

No high flying; no explanation
just back, and the jar gets
put on the shelf of the
cupboard
of wood, the oldest part of the house,
and I cannot recall to write it the smell of
peanuts jarred and ant poison and southern
yellow
pine.

Help was pointed to after my first beating,
a battlefield I paid to enter.
A friend pointed to a house
I often passed.
Said she would be around.
She became a teacher in a brutal place
full of fierce hunters.


Irritating for sure stressing
rules about table manners
where there are no tables.

My old coach
did everything
so long as she could only be felt.
I joined after meeting her.
She ignored a list that rolled forever.
I quickly became something I’m
still not quite sure of, inside
some days competition other days.


We were more similar
than I give credit for.

A lion in a pack of lions.
Relishing the ability
to pick the moment where our fate rests.
Just the road
and a fierce pack of cyclists
bleeding sweat.
Of holding cards
and praying  for a
moment to play them.
Of waking up at five to race,
watching the sun rise above the trees
and glimpses of the world waking up
around us.

She was there when I
had my first bad crash
She was teaching a session
on sprinting
My world didn’t explode.
It just changed.
Flying through central park.
Lying on a bed
sirens in the background.
“Breath in” as I enter a grey tube.
“I’m fine” as I pull at
bandages on my arm.
She only left me after
I went down to sleep
that night.

So I spun around the track
some laps she was there,
most of the time
she was only felt.

I never did do any
thank you notes.
Always scribbled messily
when they threatened to put a brake on.


A lean powerful
figure with a quiet
bonfire in her eyes,
an Olympian, twice.


I tried to exit gracefully
volunteering to help, though
I have no clue
if I deftly rolled out
or clunked like an elephant.

Yet still despite it,
or maybe because of it
she gave me a final
blessing.

Now I sit hear typing this
next to a passion she showed me,
wishing I could think
about how I left her far before
she went down to sleep.

and to think there was a time
before, when i
constantly
****** myself into thinking
each and every
*******
grandiose,
helium-filled lie existed beyond your
illustrated delusion

jaundice driven, I needed you like a
kidney stone.
lies planted,
messily
nested, the
open wounds
painfully festering

quit using me.
regarding a fragile
soul as a
tool
used, atoms feverishly
vibrating for a quick
wasted,
xanax head high.
yes I can finally see the letter
z

and not think *Zachary

I thought we were written in the stars
When in reality,
We were just scrawled messily in a bathroom stall

I was not made to be a waitress. To carry plates and pull pints and count coins and be able to breathe at the same time. I should have given up. Four years in and my boss was still telling them that it was my first night, not to mention that time someone half-jokingly asked me, a completely sober seventeen year old with an anxiety disorder in a family owned bistro in white middle-class conservative Hexham, if I was drunk. I was not made for fake confidence and biting back tears, for toilet cubicle walls and breathe in, breathe out, all you had to do was carry the potatoes to table five. I was not made to be a waitress in the same way that I was not made to understand the art of mathematics. The times tables in their white linen shirts stained with my clumsiness laughing at me as I dropped plates and couldn’t subtract fifty four pence from five pounds seventy two at the till. I wasn’t made for sequence. For questions with definite answers, I was not made for having to be right. I was made for having to be wrong. Over and over, for ******* up a lime and soda, or was it lemon? Four years into a job. I was made for honesty. For answering you truthfully when you ask me what I am thinking. I was made for chocolate on the hob and strawberries tickled with sugar in hand, for the familiarity of the songs of a home friend’s band, I was made for softness. For your lips on my lips and my hands on your hips and the imprint of your freckles on my cheek. I was made for learning that this is not weak. For learning that I was made for me.  For dancing badly and laughing loudly and eating messily. We, on the other hand, were not made for each other the way people appear to be on film, the megabus trips without air-conditioning and the seven inches and 165 miles that fall between us the ever persistent proof. I was not made for you, designed so that our lives would perfectly intertwine but what does it matter when in this moment I think I was made for this. For half-lit, half-fit bliss. For reading poetry to you at three am until you fall asleep, when all that is left is the hum of your breath as my voice echoes milk and honey, making me feel like I could be made for anything, even though we’re apart.

Sidenote: June ’17- this time there was only one 'first night' at my new job.