I reminisce in your memory,
and I bathe in your melancholy,
fireworks battle above
with destructive love and beauty,
but I do not watch them...











because I like watching you instead.

The reflection of the moon sits
in the middle of a pond.

My favorite thing to do as a kid was to play god.
I sat near the water with swaying willows
and the sharp scent of the night air
and dipped my legs into the sky,
coating myself with what I believed
to be heaven:
the stars and the
inky blackness below me.

Ripples in this water
were simple evidence
of my eternal and formidable
power.
Who else could cause waves in the sky
but God?

But no matter how hard I tried
the moon evaded me,
and I pretended we were friends
and this distance was nothing more
but physical space between us.

I could keep playing God,
and she could still have her space.  

I may have been baptized with the sky
and gone home
dripping with constellations,
but always wondered,
maybe all I had
was the space between
me
and
the moon.

I knew I was not worthy of her anointment,
but I pray whatever argument we had gotten into
would one day be resolved.

I no longer play God

But all I have now
is still the space
between
me
and
the moon.

And I wonder if I would have become God
if we had just
made up.

For late night adventures in woods
and abandoned buildings.

For strangers that sneak glances at you
between bookshelves and street corners,
and always manage to disappear when you no longer need them.

For candlewax and the flame that flickers.
For the light of the moon on paths untamed.
And for the snowfall that covers my tracks.

There is so much beauty in the wonder that you bring.

But if there is no God,
who will I be angry at?

I hope freedom's gates
taste sweeter
when captivity
has been
this
long.

Aesthetic
(es-Thee-Thicc)
ADJECTIVE

1. When he looks at me with the eyes of angel, mouth in a closed line, eyes pleading for more.
2. Wind-swept hair, ocean sea breeze, cold yet gentle waves, remind me of his heartbeat.
3. Roses in the winter time, soft petals of a cheek blossom with rosy warmth.
4. Honey, you're so much more than an aesthetic to me.

He smelled like
cigarettes
and fallen angel dust,

Tragically
soft.

Death has been unkind
in his murky, flowy form,

teasing me endlessly
and his laughter, I can't ignore.

If our love is forbidden,
then you must be
a rose petalled crime scene.

My own special episode of Law and Order;
Special victims unit.

A chalk outline
made of rainbow colors.

Ink stains your skin,
just like police reports.

Knife sharp love
murders the bad,
while forever preserving
the good.

Emotions in full bloom,
bedroom,
now surrounded by police sirens.

You are middle of the night excitement.
Escapes and otherwise.


You are a law I am willing to break;
my rose petalled crime scene.

I used to be someone
whose life goal
was to do something
that would impact
the world.

Soon I found solace
in disappearing as a whole
and realized
the biggest impact
I will ever make
is
leaving.

I fell in love with her
not like a lover
but a soulmate.

I wish not
to taint her skin
with my touch,

but rather
admire her forever
from afar.

It seems what differentiates
the mad and the musician
are the bow
in which
they strum with.

Beauty is pain,
and acceptance is the painkiller.

As you age
you will begin to realize that justice is not possible,
but actions towards it are.
The very nature and presence of our humanity demand it.

I have seen the devil
with her sharp smile
and eyes that pierced
the milky way.

Her teeth ached for my skin
and I became religious:

Not out of a need for a God to save me,
but for a need for something holy
to exist.

Wrap me in silk
and send me home
I am nothing but a sinner
who knows
how to drown.

Do I love or do I wait?
The response is a series of silent senses,
no thoughts.

Disobedience is the only form of love I inject into my veins directly.


And maybe it forever will be.

Mark me with the sin of desire
my skin is tainted flesh.
Communion wine spilled,
on the bride's wedding dress.
And when all is said and done,
I do's, blessings, and Amens,
They will consummate that marriage,
and live in the sin of regret.

She is rolling thunder,
a stoic figure with grace and presence.
She dresses herself
as a storm
with dark clouds
and lightning.
Her laughter rings
throughout the heavens
and sailors fear her,
as they should.

Memories are ruthless.

Old photographs drip, overfilled
with a nostalgic sense.

Bittersweet scents of herbs
punch my nose
as I remember...

The old pages of a book,
yellowing, curling up at the edges,
a messy note,
and I wither away between the lines.

Bullets hidden in picture frames,
batter my chest.

Knives concealed in music notes,
pierce my ears,
****** sounds, but not of screams.

Soft textures lay bare on the couch,
hands intertwined in them, not voluntarily;
muscle memory.

The taste fiery in my mouth,
make my eyes water,
Eating sweets made of leftover sorrow...









I spit it out.
But memories are irresistible.









Memories are ruthless.

God is 1000 pieces of shattered glass
begging to be put together,
inside you see your reflection
and wonder why is God's so much better.

I fear not the hands that hit me,
but the eyes that judge me so.

I fear not the tongues affliction,
as those come and go.

I fear not the stranger's glance,
but the words in their vision.

I fear not that which will **** me,
I fear survival of the fittest.

I loved her
before
I even
met her.

I hope to be
one of those people
who never lets you forget:
you are loved.

When you realize
all love is
is a shelter
from a storm,
you will understand
why I like the rain
so much.

I cup you in my hands
and imagine
that the size of your heart
is that of a fingernail;

Sometimes I worry
my love for you is so great
that it will crush you.

If you catch a bird
who doesn't wanna be caught
do not complain
when its talons
dig deep into your skin
and leave
their marks
there.

I woke up
To the thirst
Of moonlight.

Begging her essence

To quench my desires.

Its been so long
since I've poured myself
truly and fully
into a poem.

My aesthetic is bike grease,
hands covered in slippery oil,
a night's ride full of fun,
adventure rolling like the wheels.

Her frizzy hair
was simply
an invisble halo
being wrapped
in strands of gold.

She smelled like cigarette smoke
and *****
and Oh,
how I wished to be
the ash or the bottle
that fell
from
her
lips.

If I hold my mind
above my GPA
would the numbers spin the same?

4.5 my ***,
I hate the way prideful disgust
enters me at teachers praise.

Parents proud at the cost of their child.
A "Your best is not good enough"
for every B received.

4 Cambridge classes, 2 college classes, a sports medicine class, four club-

"Your best is not good enough."

4.5 GPA, A in advanced classes, 11 exams this ye-

"Your best is not good enough."

Echo your complaints in the sound of the bottomless pit that is my word count.

I do not recall signing my sleep away,
when signing up for classes.

Some will understand,
some will say "That's life"
and disregard everything written above,
as a child's last attempt
to be saved
from a system
she is a slave
to.

How many intelligent friends do I have,
that refuse to take up their time with busy work,
that teachers scoff at?

Too many.

I spend this weekend doing a 1,200 to 1,500 word essay, a power point counted as an exam, writing over 70 slides of notes, rescheduling finals, then volunteering from 11 to 1, and do not forget to go to church.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

take a week and spend it in your child's shoes,
and find that
back talk is nothing but stress
built up.

I used my break today to write this,
Because God forbid,
I take 5 minutes to myself.

in conclusion,
mock me,
or relate,
The truth of the matter lies
bare in the numbers.

I care not how long this is or how many will save it or relate,

this poem is for myself,
I can only hope to have reached another soul.

I sit on the edge of the world
where the sea meets the galaxy
and the water
begins to float.

I no longer think
of where I am
or where I am going to be
or where I was.

I am here
where the sky
is on fire.

I hold the girl
I want to be
Trapped between
Lines
Of poetry.

I write from my heart,
let the ink be my blood,
this poem is my heartbeat,
and it has lost its rhythm.

True respect stems from love not fear.

If a child respects a parent out of love, and does something bad and gets away with it, their guilt will consume them and they may confess and do the right thing.

If a child respects a parent out of fear, they will simply be happy they did not get punished and avoided fear.

The ghost of her presence
is well requested
in its
absence.

The stars
are just
night time
riptides.

They pull you deeper
and deeper
into the night sky,
until
you're 30 miles in,
and not looking for home.

Stardust and luster puff
bloom in full petalled glory,
dancing decadently and delicately
in waves of motion
to the sound of the moon hitting skin.

Hues of lazy colors,
colors of royalty,
of lemonade,
of orange juice
of grape soda,
all sweetly mix together
in a concoction for auction
the eyes take it in,
every last sip of it is sold,
to the highest bidder.

The ocean the space of the earth,
a vast void that stretches like
an eternal blue blanket,
comforting in its view,
cold in its nature.

The aesthetical soul awaits, taking everything in through all senses...






































which drown her in their beauty.

We all die alone in our minds,
it is the comfort we have
with our demons
and self
that brings satisfaction of
life in
death.

The scent of autumn
was woven between
strands of her hair.

She lays on the hill
between heaven and hell
and ponders
the valley's
name.

Monsters do exist,
simply in the stories we create.
They are indeed real,
but within pages and programs,
not
behind
you.

Welcome to the dark side of the moon
where angels
**** devils
and the grey morality
of their children
is our main show.

There is no hesitation
to pick up bird feathers
from off the ground,
and heal an angel's
broken wings.
But there is a pause
before we reach a hand
to the broken claw
of a demon.
Tell me now,
Are they both not in need of saving?

Sometimes I feel as though
writing poetry
is like throwing scraps at the dogs.
Have I satisfied my mind's hunger to write?
Not until
I can say
that I've written
with pride.
For the only way to be full
is to be brave enough
to swallow
my own
words.

One day I hope
he festers and perishes
as badly as
he treated
me.

I left with the intent
of seeing you again.

I wish I would have known
otherwise.

I will drown
in streams of
salt,
running along a glass rim.