People take the world as they see it themselves
some see black
some see white
many see grey
as for me?
I see it for what it is....technicolored.

                                                                ­                                  Life is far to wonderful and bright too see it as simple black
                                       it is too deep and mysterious to be only white
it is too exciting and amazing to be described as grey
There's a reason that there is color present everywhere.
If the world were colorless, so life would be.
                                                             ­                                      But the autumn leaves are crimson and gold and apricot
The halls in which we walk are of light saphron and amber
                                                       The city streets in which we trod are spurted with shades of periwinkle and magenta
The meadows through which we stroll have flowers of violet and buds of rose
                                                        The trees with which we have our yuletide celebration are the solemn green
  Life is as we see it
dont be strapped down to bland colors like
                                         grey                     white                              black
Life is color
Furious Scarlet
                            Dejected Sapphire
                                                        ­         Joyful Fuscia
                                                          ­                                    Envious Sage
                                                            ­                                                                 ­       Playful Yellow
Even as you look in the mirror, colors are shown to you.
I see
eyes of chocolate
                                    cheeks of mauve
                                                           ­              teeth of pearl  
                                                         ­                                                 lips of ruby
                                                            ­                                                                 ­              skin of gold
Even my soul is multicolored in all its numerous facets

                                                       Dont let yourself be barred into the cell of neutrality

                                                                ­                                   See life for the rainbow that it truly is.

Eyes. Heartbreak is her sunlit memory barely held by a wooden clothespin. It hangs and glares before your eyes, mocking as it fades into an empty filmstrip. Heartbreak is a lost soul left to perish in her ghost-town, and warmer sunsets are lifetimes away. A wonderwall left standing, pinned polaroids, desperate scratches. You had fought hard and long, for this, but homes are made for breaking and crumbling and leaving, especially in the losing side.

Mouth. Heartbreak is a paper-tag of a goodbye caught in her lips. It is a metaphor that melts at the soft space under your tongue, a certain bittersweet taste made for drowning with a cold lager, a stranger’s whispers, and the perils of his unfiltered cigarette kiss. Heartbreak is taming a manic scream into a delicate, defeated sigh, out of sync with the way she breathed. But then sighing still hurts, and breathing still hurts because you’re alive – you’re so ******* alive for this unbuffered pain.

Chest. Heartbreak is begging your chest not to break amid a listzomaniac rush. Heartbreak is a prosaic throbbing, a treacherous ***** stuck in your ribs, begging to be held like it doesn’t hurt. Heartbreak is a site of buried lavender lithiums, asking for a eulogy; but silence is equally as oppressive. It is your body betraying you, like a city undone by its smokes. It is a quiet word – not a poem, because poems are beautiful despite the pain, and this isn’t. This isn’t.

Hands. Heartbreak is your shaky hand flipping through the last three pages of a tragedy — a heroine dies, a stray star falls, a maiden leaves on a horse-drawn carriage. There is no changing of the ending. Heartbreak is reaching for the empty space in bed, leaving your fingers in technicolored bruises. How can emptiness break one’s bones? Heartbreak is scrubbing your skin dry, raw, and untouchable where she once laid her kisses. Heartbreak is your nails digging through her letters in utter despair — for invisible ink, a promise in the postscript, an estranged lover in familiar flesh, only to find torn sheets, spilled wine, and finality.

Legs. Heartbreak is coming home to ***** laundry all over these cold, wistful floors. Heartbreak is walking in hushed tiptoes only to trip and fall down a memory lane – a kaleidoscope of all the wounds that can possibly hurt. It is catching an empty train to somewhere unloving her is possible – doable. Heartbreak is teaching your legs to run away from the chaos of her naked skin, and not to fall at her feet. But still, you fall and you fall and you break what’s left of your bones chasing after something that’s already gone – long before it has said goodbye. So turn your back and hold your heart — it breaks harder, louder, and worse before it settles down and sits as quiet aching: a forgotten filmstrip, a soundless breath, a calm poem, a serene night.

I have so much love to give and if I were given the chance I would love you radically, I would let you feel everything so loudly it would radiate off your insides and it would move tectonic plates in California it would move mountains in Colorado it would be life changing, mind altering, it would be everything and nothing all at once
I have so much love bubbling up inside me I think the butterflies are starting to attack each other I think they are frustrated that I won't let them free but I'm afraid they won't come back if I do
I have so much to give and so much to tell you
I want you to know you belong with the wildflowers baby, but I will pick you for myself. I will wear you in my hair until all your petals fall off and fly into the wind I will mourn the loss and always keep the stem as a reminder that beauty is in your roots
I think you make it easier to laugh that belly laugh from the ground up the laugh I feel in my toes and in the ends of my hair you make things easy
You make things so easy baby suburbia might be enough
I might want to walk these streets forever I might want to be grey with you
But we could never be grey not you and me not us no never
We are already bright on our own and that's what makes us technicolored that's what makes us loud
I always liked things loud and you came screaming and wailing you came with an amp attached to your love you were so loud baby but you never made me quiet our sound never clashed it harmonized
You are my harmony
You are my mantra
My peace
My mine mine mine
I will love you down
I will love you loudly
It will be brash
It may hurt
But I will be gentle in the biggest way possible
Because love is a verb
And it's been a noun in my mouth for far too long

the last time i waited for life, it hit me like a car crash.
glass ground into dust, bones playing off each other like
a skeletal rockshow; i was a human kaleidoscope.
when i finally opened my eyes again, i saw clouds in
the cracks on the sidewalk, found pieces of myself
smashed into concrete like a chalk-drawing anatomy.
skin met ground easily, like it always belonged there.

life must be the hit-and-run type, because i never saw
its eyes leave the road ahead; i never even saw it look
back. accidents happen, they will say, when they find me
unfolded like a street art snow angel. and maybe they do.
but more likely, the car windows were obscured by dirt
or the roads gave up on storing rain for the springtime.

or maybe it’s just me, a permanent fixture of boulevards
that smell like regret and missed chances, trying to predict  
changing street lights like they are signals for starting over.
just another halcyon disaster zone, entertaining the collision
of twin headlights on skin, the iceberg that devoured a ship
just for declaring that it had dreams to carry across the sea.

i will never stop turning myself inside out to see if the future
is something inscribed on dna, to watch the pieces of my soul
bleed into each other like wax in a technicolored lava lamp.
i will never stop filtering life through a maze of mirrors and
colors, tilting it this way and that until i can turn the pieces
of broken glass into keys that fit the lock of an escape car.

i will never stop.

august is a map of my fullest aches. it always has heartbreaks for me to feel. it is all the wrong lights hitting all my wrong angles and now i'm facing a mirror of my body covered in torn traces of breaths — an empty space, a backdrop for a sight of star dusts lingering. august is a map of my feet where the sea has buried technicolored glasses — all swelling, all wounds dulled by the salt and the summer rain. soon, august will all wear off like a cruel high; it's done seeing me mourning, and i'll be an empty shell for september to wash away.

walk past me in the shallow seas. walk past me in full aching state. walk past me — look past; i long to be a ghost of something delicate, something not terrifying, something that doesn't haunt.

There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess

Remotely whet my appetite
Might as well try it
What incited this riot!
Expansion instead will I write
From four letters beyond our two words
Until some future thoughts take flight
Crossing greater expanse than do birds
From this dizzying height
Somehow gains me insight
Ignites
Pure white
Technicolored invite burning
Brilliant despite
Me
No matter how bright

To define the way you make me feel tonight
To hell with the line, say take me, **** polite

sometimes there is more
than static in my mind.
there is noise
and then silence.
but when you speak,
my whole world goes quiet.

a universe of words
pour into my mind
and out of your mouth.
technicolored patterns
fill my eyes.
you are a beaming light,
golden and blooming
as we jump into a
pool of stars.

Late in the night, when crows flock and moon swells,
You arise from the dead to haunt me.

My room glows with an eerie blue
My crystal ball turns black and rectangular--
Still cloudy and shining, but now with technicolored lights.
And sound! Not with voice or a ghostly yawn;
But the pin-***** "ding" of a message from beyond.

It tells me that heaven and hell cannot contain you.
That you will not be silenced by the end.
There IS no end because you will not let it;
A corpse too stubborn to die, too cold to live.