Poetry

i want to write poetry
poetry about sunshine and rainbows
because this world needs something to smile about

i want to write poetry
poetry about first loves and first kisses
because my world needs something to dream about

i want to write poetry
poetry about siblings and mothers, fathers who care
because my world needs some honesty

i want to write poetry
poetry about rags to riches and magic in wishes
because this world needs something to hope about

i want to write POETRY
the kind of magic that words cannot contain
the stuff of fairies and tales.
i want to write poetry.
words that move and inspire
words of our heart's desires.
i want to write poetry
reasons for living
and the dam to these damn tears i'm crying.
i want to write poetry.
anything for poetry.
someone give me some fucking poetry.

Late at night the poem calls.

late at night the poem calls
and to the page my pen falls.

late at night the wine flows
and to your bed my body goes.

late at night the streets are quiet
and the moment whispers try it.

late at night the moon is bright
and life around seems just right.

Is there a specific person to whom you write your poems? Have you shared them with her?

There are sometimes specific people to whom I write, and other times there are not. I would most definitely not share with him or her. However, I keep a blog of poetry, so they may find it all on their own.

Whatcha wanna know?

Since you're a "poet at heart," who is your favorite poet to read?

Oh this is so difficult! I wish I was well read enough to give a good answer. I have loved Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, TS Eliot, and EE Cummings. I have read Frost and Wordsworth and Longfellow. I have loved a lot of poems, and a lot of poems have struck me. Lately, I've liked Ginsberg's Howl.

Perhaps I should tell you, though, that I may not be a poet after all. I used to feel forced into writing. Now, I hardly have emotional bursts and urges. Perhaps I'm not a poet after all.

Whatcha wanna know?

crappy poem #?

though clouds are gray
and the sun is bleak.
though rain is near
and I can't sleep.
though life is hard
and we all fall.
despite it all
there's a call

to do your best
to try, to fight
to make it through
the darkest night
to live your life
because i say:
that life can suck
but you,
you have worth

help me

help me figure out me
ryan screams at the sea

help me figure out me
bridget pounds out in beat

help me figure out me
speaks spencer to his bottle

help me figure out me
whispers maggie to the stars

help me figure out me
i say to the mirror

no response
is my response

i guess we're alone out here

headache

my head hurts

my head hurts in this terrible caffeinated sleepless tantrum.
i try to calm it with sweet piano melodies and eyes closed for sleep,
but my head hurts.
my head hurts too much to sleep,
because it is trying to figure out why my heart hurts.
why my heart hurts after weeks of silence
why my heart hurts now
why my heart hurts so terribly much
and yet my heart doesn't hurt at all

my heart doesn't feel.
and these tears that are about to fall...
they aren't real.
because my heart doesn't hurt
it never hurt at all

it didn't hurt when you hugged me
and my body felt electricity.
it didn't hurt when you smiled contently
as i was exiled from your room.
it didn't hurt when you didn't talk to me
for what seemed like weeks.
it didn't hurt when you chastised me
for not being the best i could be.

my heart never hurt.
it didn't hurt at all.
my heart never hurt.
you don't matter at all.

I'm a mess

I'm unraveling,
waiting as I come undone.
The thread of me came loose with you
and now I'm shredded through.

I once was strong,
a heart in hand
and ready to be thrown.

Now I'm scared.
I lost my heart.
And when it was found,
I clutched it close for
no one else to hold.

It's not for her,
or even you.
Because, I'm a mess.
I've come undone.

How's Life?

the music hums
and my feet beat
there's nothing to be done.

I'm alone
and in my room
the magic's here to be found.

I move
and tears fall-
from sad to happy let them come,

because my heart tears from my chest
when I think of you.
But, there's nothing to be done.
I'm alone, waiting to be found.
Let whoever come.

Do you believe in God?

i'm not sure. i used to. i used to be a rather devout catholic. then, some things in my life changed, and now i don't go to church or pray. i suppose i still believe there has to be something more, but i'm not sure if that is God or not.

Whatcha wanna know?

Who are the people you love most in your life?

believe it or not, i actually do love my family. my brother mitchell has always been very important to me despite how much i want to punch him in the face.
otherwise, i love my friends. I'll give special shout outs to Bill and Christine, but otherwise you should probably know. If you don't, I'm not doing my job properly.

Whatcha wanna know?

Untitled 11-28

smile for awhile
says the music of the wind

laugh till your death
let it tickle all your skin

work for the work
not the money or the fame

be who you'll be
don't let them change a thing

simple is the wish;
take the pills before I sleep

untitled 11-17-10

trapped within the bones
of a too thin ribcage
it beats ba-dum ba-dum
until it bursts.

Bursts. bursts
from too much life
without enough love
Moloch! Moloch!
cries the Howl of the city street.
They, too, have been worked too hard.

We have been worked too hard.
Worked to the point of hiding.
Hiding ourselves with
masks and self discovery stories--
our self defining moments.

Moments of purest epiphany
that lead to this discovery:
know yourself and learn to love it.

let me tell you about courage

courage is sitting alone
in your room crying at the thought
of people finding out
who you are, but not giving up.

courage is writing down the words
that will change your life,
hoping it's for the better.

courage is taking the pills
that mess with your brain
because you would give
anything not to be crazy.

courage is leaving the room
and smiling, hoping
that today is better than the last.

No one home

I walk into my room.
The light's on.
Stop.

I stop.
I'm trying to slow my breathing
while at the same time prepare
myself for the fight or flight
response I'm not used to.

Did I leave the light on?

I take a step.
There's giggling.
I smile.
I recognize that voice.
She came to visit.

Things I learned last night.

vermilion truth
with cinnamon lies
brings sapphire seduction
and emerald envy.

clear cups of rose hope
don't mix with jade memories,
and Brian texting Steph
was more ugly than true.

My life needs more ginger,
and his needs some mocha.
So, why don't we settle
this honest onyx waste of time.

writer's block

the words are gone--
torn from me
like homes torn from the ground in a storm.
windows of poetry stained
with the blood of my heart
lost from the wells of its chest.

the tears come slowly,
like a funeral procession.

fingers shake as they
slide the pen across the page.
it's over.

it's done.
my madness has stolen my mind.
there is no hope for this hopeless boy.

I'm cold.

finding the words

is like pulling teeth 
when creativity is no longer in reach.
 It is like flying a plane 
 without any knowledge of the controls. 
 The only thing you know is that

you do not want to crash. 


 You want to soar. 
 You want to fly. 
 You want words to come to you 
 like wind comes to eagles wings. 
 Like church songs 
come to faithful prayers.


 Like you live in a freshmen dorm
and the constant door crashes 
and excited yells 
mean that you are alive. 
You want words to come like electricity-- 
in sparks and surges 
flowing through your body
with alacrity. 


You want finding the words to be easy, 
like it's easy to look at you. 
When you dance it is like

the world 
is conspiring to make beauty.

finding the words

is like pulling teeth
when creativity is no longer in reach.
It is like flying a plane
without any knowledge of the controls.
The only thing you know is that
you do not want to crash.
You want to fly.
You want words to come to you
like wind comes to eagles wings.
Like church songs come to faithful prayers.

Like you live in a freshmen dorm
and the constant door crashes and excited yells
mean that you are alive.
You want words to come like electricity--
in sparks and surges
flowing through your body
with alacrity.

You want finding the words to be easy,
like it's easy to look at you.
When you dance it is like
the world is conspiring to make beauty.

Community

I belong to brown skin

and Spanish accents.

I belong to rainbow flags

and matching outfits.

I belong to pointed feet

and pained arches.

I belong to dramatic exits

and center stages.

I belong to loving smiles

and pain filled hearts.

I belong to study groups

and the middle class non-identity.

I belong to faith

and to the currently faithless.

I belong to love

and every single.

I belong to crazy

and drug filling routines.

I belong to drinking

and liking to party.

I belong to me,

meaning I do not belong to you,

and therefore, we, all of us, are unique.

Three Students in a Room

The quiet scratching of their pens

covered by the cool Icelandic

music washing mellifluously over their tired brains.

They lean steadily over futures,

working readily into responsibility.

Their hopes augmented by caffeine.

Three students in a room

strain tired eyes by lamp light,

regressing uncomfortably from playing.

I'm cracking. I'm numb.

A September angel

whispered "espero,"

breathing eternity

scandalously.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

Her bare body

is smoldering sex

with the pull of her fingers

across her belly.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

Her invisible brother

could be insatiable

but is hiding underneath

a shell of a shawl.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

it's like I don't exist

when you don't talk to me

for what feels like

weeks, as if I suddenly

matter only in my dreams.

you haunt me the way

sharks circle shores,

the way a mailbox feels

empty- the feeling that I

feel as I fill this sheet.

empty save the coals

smoldering like words on a page.

untitled 8-30

"I want to believe... that a song

drifting on invisible waves still exists somewhere." Betsy Sholl

I want to believe you exist.

Riding woe the same way I do,

you're catching waves until we meet.

You're holding secrets that make blood-red sleeves

the way I'm holding secrets in my pockets.

You're catching eyes that drift right by,

but you've never found a fit.

Because you want to dance on moonlit shores

twinkling your stars with the beat.

Because your heart is pulling with the tides

the way mine pulls just for yours.

Because right now you do exist somewhere

sitting lonely on a pier.

And I want to meet you and be the

musical whisper in your ear.

Mountains

for Mike

Butterflies...

blue butterflies over gray hills

make me think that life is worth the climb.

We are not so lucky to soar.

We climb, some steeper than others,

up cliffs of broken hearts and dreams.

We belay over piles of promises

and take rests at indifference's peaks.

You're like a piton,

holding me up.

You're like the clear view

after a stint in depression's valley.

You're a friend,

someone with a clear mind.

You're a song telling me,

"Everything is alright."

And I believe you.

I believe in you.

Somehow,

after every talk I'm calm.

Like, you're a catharsis.

Like I reach a peak in the plot

diagram of my life and you make a resolution.

Somehow I'm fine.

I wanted to tell you:

thank you.

Everything is alright.

untitled 8-26

in my weeping willow down the street

the branches hung longer than Rapunzel's hair.

I wasn't aware that by the channel

Mitchell could be such a rebel,

and no amount of begging please

could save the life of those poor bees.

Buzzing bees, angry jackets

yellow flying at my waiting head.

Pain.

Mitchell usually meant pain

after the age of thirteen.

Too cool for me was he

then, a middle school man.

Bright, bustling age of eleven,

and I'm in search of a new best friend.

Moving on to half past thirteen

and Mitchell's there to hold me, sobbing.

I did a lot of sobbing.

Over broken bones,

or broken hearted,

I cried more tears

than Mitchell spotted.

But when he did,

and this was sure,

a helping hand

was always there.

Even Keel

I'm on an even keel,

I think it's just the drugs.

SSRI and stabilized.

Bipolar? down to zero.

What am I without the label?

Who am I on the drugs?

What is it to be different

while just striving for the same?

So I'm stable, so I'm sane.

So I'm crazy, and I'm ill.

Well, I'm tired and I'm bored,

and I'm ready for the world.

While I'm sitting in this class

and I listen to him speak

I can't help but to notice

no one really gives a damn.

there's a weeping willow in the backyard

Mitchell and Rocco have a game.

It's a we can do it, catch us game.

I don't catch on.

Slower and unsure,

I waddle my way through life.

Acting,

I'm always acting.

Gotta make sure they know

I'm strong.

Gotta make sure

I'm better than them.

Mom and Dad insist I win.

Do good in school,

you'll make it far.

They don't know...

it should be well.

They don't care though-

it only matters that I understand.

Gotta shine,

gotta win.

Gotta make sure they know

I'm better than them.

Lauren's acting out on a whim.

Shes fire; she's hot.

She's Puerto Rican flame.

She burns; she fights.

She's not alright.

I'll show her who's right.

I smolder, don't burn.

Passion needs a steady heat.

I'm right, so right.

Surely, I'm better than her.

I'm wrong, so wrong.

I should have never run away.

I'm fleeing; I'm seeking.

I'm finding out what's right.

I'm stress relieving play-doh,

and pacing halls.

I'm crazy, mental illness.

I'm everything wrong.

But,

I'm me.

I'm persistent.

I'm moving on.

I know that at some point

I'll be alright.

I can see soul

We are ordinary people

We are strong

We are brave

We are lovers

We have hate

We are freed

We are tied

We are finders

We are found

We can see

We can sing

We can smile

We can cry

And I know

in my heart

that the truth is

we all die.

But before

we all go

we are people

and we grow.

untitled 8-6-10

Stick your head out the window

take a picture of the sky.

Feel the wind in your hair;

let your feelings fly.

Feel the sun, summer on your skin.

Smile, basking with closed eyelids,

road trip with Kim at the wheel.

Lucky, luckier if she knew how you feel.

Text from Daniel makes you laugh,

knowing he knows the feelings you have.

Call from Laura brings good news.

You wonder how it feels to be in her shoes.

Hot car- too many layers.

You're getting tired.

Dashboard plays and you sleep.

It's time to start anew this week.

reasons i'm nervous

1) because I like you

can't you see it?

every action

is a flirtation

every hug

i want a kiss

2) because my life changed

isn't it obvious?

i'm losing friends

for a job

i'm not sure i'm okay

with the choice

3) being honest

it's a scary thing

i want it badly

but who's to say

it'll all be okay?

4) because life is scary

didn't you know?

things aren't easy

at least not for me.

Sometimes that's okay,

but sometimes I wanna cry.

it's scary, feeling alive

the trains pass every 15 minutes.

it's the hardest place to speak,

but instead of being silent

we learn to tell our lies.

It's easier this way,

holding up our fake image.

Except, my arms are weary,

my spirit, my soul, tired.

I want a life lived honest.

I want a love held tight.

I want a mind of self-confidence.

I want to be alright.

I want to feel like I'm soaring;

I want to be chain-free.

I want to know where the ground is

for when my wings can't carry me.

I want to want things without being scared

that someone will know I learned to want.

I did,

and the truth of the matter is:

what I really want is to want,

and right now all I want is you.

it makes me nervous, being alive

with great power comes great responsibility,

and somehow I find myself with power.

Who would ever think it a good idea,

to trust me with responsibility?

But they did, and it makes me nervous,

knowing I'm a screw-up,

knowing that they trust me.

And they, they act like they'll see me,

but we know it's not true.

After this week, I'm leaving.

My life will be different,

my time not my own.

I wish that they saw it;

I wish that they knew.

I wish they understood,

that I love them too.

Oh well,

welcome to the midnight society, Patrick.

You're no longer your own.

my self-pity recipe doesn't call for sleep

It calls for getting fucked up,

failing the way I do.

Drunk

Drunk

Drunk

What I need is some luck

to get out of this cluster fuck

of too fast emotions

and undefined devotion

to... someone I love

and never should have told.

Too long have I hid;

too long I've played a fool.

Too far I've gone.

Too stupid to be alone.

feeling like a failure

They don't tell you how to deal

with these things in high school,

feeling like going insane

feeling like running away

feeling like pounding your brain away

with drugs because that's what feels good right now.

There's no thinking about tomorrow

when you're this far into crazy,

when the days are long and hazy.

So why bother?

Why bother with the class

with the test you just failed?

Drink some vodka! It puts hair on your chest

and then, hey! fuck around.

It feels good, not that I would know.

I'm just full of angst.

I'm just a little buzzed,

not even tipsy yet.

I'm just mad.

Mad that I can't do it.

Mad that I'm used to it.

Mad that you shouldn't believe in me.

Mad for being me!

What the fuck, life?

Why all of this strife?

Yes, that rhymes,

get over it.

That was meant to make you smile.

I know in my heart that I failed.

Why?

Because that's what I do.

I fail.

I fail to follow through.

I fail to stay consistent.

I fail to understand myself.

I even failed to die.

So next time I promise,

think twice.

I'm just good at fucking up.

untitled 7-25-10

The sounds of the city lightly play

while you lay, eyes closed and groggy head,

and listen to the mix

of digital and analog,

the virtual and substantial.

It's a lazy summer day

and Eliot's rhythms dominate your brain.

There are things to do,

but the heat muddles your mental cues.

You think you may, in fact, achieve

but we all know you'll only fall asleep

half-naked on your golden fleece.

It was a good attempt at least.

My Question In Need of an Honest Answer

what do you like about me?

borracho y loco

the tortured ones are bi-polar,

and we know they make the best art.

Somehow, that didn't work out for me.

My work is mediocre... at best.

Well, doesn't that suck?

Laura says we're all crazy.

What makes life normal?

And maybe she's right.

This summer isn't normal for them.

Borracho y loco,

it's crazy and fun.

But why does it make me feel normal?

Why is their wild my dull?

Why do I need such thrill?

I'm called an introvert

and yet my brain needs stimulation.

Their crazy is my normal.

Ain't that strange?

I apologize

for the lack of poetry. I'm sure that my emotions will boil over sometime soon, and then you'll have more to read!

dearest partial percolation,

my current state of emotion,

I would very much like it if you would have an explosion.

You see, I like bursts of inspiration,

strong blasts of boiling over emotions.

But, right now you lack devotion

to our writing cause. Some conviction

would be nice, emotions.

Jeez, it’s like I’m the only one looking out for our preservation.

Anyway, time to go. You know, my occupation.

Sincerely,

PM

p.s. I love how normal you make me feel

Something

is what we're searching for

some thing to describe

who we are

what we are

how we're special.

But, something is a throwaway word

the word we use to describe the shit we don't care about.

Still, something is something special too;

it's all we have to describe the unknown:

what love is

how to find yourself

feeling alive.

Something is something confusing,

and all I need right now:

something to hold onto.

untitled 2 7-7-10

What doesn't happen doesn't matter

nor does what we want necessarily count.

Our lives are not meant for regret.

I'm here to say let this moment pass.

Let this feeling of worthlessness and rejection

be something of the past.

Let the moment pass.

But heed this warning:

do not let them restrict your desire.

Please, want. Dream big.

Let your heart soar

like the kites we used to fly

when dreams were reality.

I want to write.

So, for today I'm a writer.

I'll not let you take that from me.

I'm creating my destiny.

untitled 1 7-7-10

sometimes you knock

but no one comes out

sometimes you think up a poem

but have no pen to write it down

sometimes you think you're strong

but get knocked down

sometimes you think you're smart

but get showed up

sometimes you wonder why

and you wanna cry

but don't waste tears.

sometimes life sucks

but you've gotta try

untitled 7-6-10

I'm so close to happy

I can feel it rolling as a wave in my mouth,

building in power like the anticipation

you feel as you bite your lip before you say the word

fuck.

Fuck

fuck

fuck.

Fuck you

is what I say to all the people who don't believe.

Believe in me!

because I am going to be...

something,

for just being is worth

some thing.

Now, I'm not sure what that thing is yet,

like I'm not sure exactly who I am,

but I know this:

life is worth living

as long as your heart is still beating.

people like you

people like you,

people who don't judge

for a little summer fun.

people like you,

people who don't mind my crazy,

who think it might be a little normal.

people like you,

people who have seen me cry,

people that knew i wanted to die.

people like you,

people that listen to me whine,

and people that invite me to dine.

people like you,

people who are true.

people like you,

people that keep secrets.

people like you,

people that I can trust.

people like you,

people that I love.

I Dance with Daniel

We live in a world of pretense.

You expect something of me.

When we walk,

when we talk

we are judging.

We love categories.

But not with him.

With him I dance.

I know the steps,

like they've been there all along.

The steps are me,

something so familiar but frightening.

And when I'm with him I don't think

of which steps to take;

I feel,

like when I feel the music I dance to.

With him I do not pretend.

He knows who I am,

and that is refreshing.

This is not a tango we dance,

it is more like a pas-

it's slow and entirely open.

If he places me in a category

it is not to tell me that category

is somehow unacceptable.

When he judges me,

he deems me worthwhile.

He won't read this,

for that I'm happy.

But I wish I could tell him:

thank you for dancing.

to the person who bought me a thong

Thank you.

Although I do not know what to do with it,

I had been wanting a gift.

You see, Daniel promises

he bought me something,

and although I can't find

it he insists it's hidden

somewhere in the rubble of my

crumbled heart.

Underneath my sweaty sheets where

I toss and turn in the summer heat

and my mattress that has yet to see action,

are the remnants of hope

tossed aside like a pair of old gym shoes.

Filed between my chemistry notes

and Spanish folder is my joy,

neatly stored for future use

but gathering dust as we speak.

Beside my Moleskines and tubes

of watercolors are brightly colored

pastels of peace of mind, waiting

to be rubbed and smeared

on the blank sheets of

my future, their tips still whole,

unused.

And there, encrypted and saved

in a secret file on my C drive

are my dreams, waiting to be unlocked.

You know,

I don't care that he has lied to me.

You see, I searched my room.

I found no iPod or fancy hat,

but I did find a map

marked with Xs on all of my treasures.

I think I'll find them soon.

I think I'll use them too.

a movement to normalcy

My greatest fears:

abandonment

and feeling weird.

Last night, I faced both.

We went to the bridge.

Blue candy mixed with Mountain Dew

made the lights magical.

My friends made them real.

I almost didn't go.

I left my room to find them

gone, but my fears were

unwarranted. "We never

left you, and we aren't going to.

Now, come back here; we miss you."

And so I went,

to hop a fence and sit and watch

bright lights reflect on moving water.

We talked of home and crushes,

embarrassments and favorite music.

We laughed and listened,

stayed silent and felt the wind on our skin.

You know, I'm not normal,

but that's okay.

Daniel says to ride the weird.

I'm interesting and exciting,

and that's ridiculously good.

I'm interesting and exciting...

the thought of it is pleasing.

Life Lesson

I'm needy.

Like a cat, I howl

until you pay me attention,

and then I bite when I'm done.

Ken's gone.

He's leaving forever

and I'm not sure he'll say goodbye.

Daniel's busy.

He needs to talk

to more important people

of more important matters.

Life lesson:

you don't matter.

You're an

insignificant,

forgettable,

whinny,

little,

brat,

and no one wants you.

But, you're their amigo,

which means you pretend

until pretending isn't enough

and something has to end.

Feeling Scared

When I get home

I need to be alone.

Something's off

and it's pretty clear

that alone won't be enough,

not to fight this fear.

Yesterday I told a secret

and now I have to live with regret,

not of the telling

but solely of the waiting.

Bill's in another land

and my letter is in his hand.

What did he think?

Did he read? Will my heart sink?

My soul knows something's aloof,

but it can't quite find proof.

My mind says use logic,

but then I would not be neurotic.

So fear is what I live with,

knowing I won't be normal this year.

But, bi-polar is good enough

to stay near to in the clear.

Borderline

Patient must have five of the following:

1 ) Frantic efforts to avoid abandonment.

Like last night, my greatest fear.

I thought your betrayal of trust

would last forever. How could I hold on

with all that fear going on?

2 ) Unstable relationships alternating between idealization and devaluation.

You're perfect,

the best friend I've had.

You listen, you like me.

You even enjoy my company.

But, you never text,

and you've never called.

I always go to visit you.

You're busy, busier than me.

Everyone needs you, so you don't need me.

3 ) Unstable self-image or sense of self.

Who am I?

A social chameleon.

For every situation I'm the proper Patrick.

Oh, he's so kind.

He's so extroverted, so gregarious.

He's so easy to talk to.

He's shy, emo.

He's happy.

He's depressed.

Who the hell am I?

4 ) Self-damaging impulsivity.

Like the time I ran Tim's box

cutter up and down my wrist,

feeling the cool metal

but never piercing skin.

5 ) Recurrent suicidal or self-mutilating behavior.

My favorite.

I spent a year wanting to die.

Hi, Mom and Dad,

glad you could make it to my

I'm suicidal chat.

We'll call it Kevin's intervention...

jackass.

6 ) Emotional instability.

This looks like bi-polar...

guess what I am.

7 ) Chronic feelings of emptiness.

Like how I am worthless.

Anusia called me on the

phone and told me I'm great,

that I'm important,

but I'm not.

What have I done?

What makes me special?

Nothing.

I'm just weird.

8 ) Inappropriate, intense anger.

I'm sorry I got mad and left

the room. I took a shower

to cool down, chilling my body

and soul. You deserve better.

9 ) Transient paranoia or dissociation symptoms.

I used to think I could

foretell the future.

I experience deja vu

so frequently that it must

be real. I must have dreamt

this, right?

****

Well that makes nine.

I'm right in between.

Borderline: the imaginary

state between neurosis and psychosis...

aka being fucked up.

There are stories choking my heart.

Her story begins with

acid wash jeans

and closed fist beatings,

midnight screams

and vague notions of nothings.

His story is full of

healing scars

and tattooed feelings,

ancient poems

and feeling alone.

She's all about looking good-

high-end fashion

and men with passion,

attention to detail

and half-price retail.

He's in love with drugs-

cheap thrills

and easy girls,

fast highs

whatever the price.

I'm in love with them,

her bright blue eyes

and "Love" tattooed across his wrist.

Her determined gait,

and the way his fingers jitter.

I'm in love with them,

but she's and empty shell,

and he's forgotten how to love;

she just wants lust

and he can never sit still.

I'm in love with them,

but they don't love me.

I'm in love with them,

and their stories choke me.

The truth of feeling

Today was a good day,

and now I'm reduced to journaling

by lamplight in my room, while eating

peanut butter m&ms, of course.

The m&ms are a coping mechanism,

the journal a habit of thought.

You see, neither really do their job.

It'd be easier if I were not.

But the truth of the matter,

if the matter is what you want,

is that feelings are fleeting

and fleeting they're permanently not.

I once saw a raindrop, perfectly clear

drop like a gem from the sky.

It shone and twinkled like a wish toward my eye,

and I tell you wish I didn't, not in that moment.

In that moment there was only me

and the drop, twice refracted, once reflected.

All of everything in the sun on rain,

I was everything in the ebb and flow of a sun-shower rain.

In reply to He Puts Pen to Paper

But that never happened,

and it never will.

Because I don't love you,

I still refuse to.

Because for me to love you

I would need some things.

I would need to touch you,

I would need to touch your face.

I would need to kiss you,

I would need to know your taste.

I would need to know you,

both your mind and your physique.

I would need to need you,

and all I have is want.

I really want to need you,

but love you I cannot.

Pasamos Juntos

Amor,

pasamos juntos.

We walk together.

Yesterday, I went to the beach,

and left footprints in the sand.

Then, I walked back,

being careful to step in each one perfectly,

and walked again with bare feet,

so that I could pretend you were walking beside me

holding your shoes in your hand

and wearing that pretty yellow dress.

We walk together.

When I go to the store I buy

a pint of cookie dough

and eat it with two spoons,

one for you.

We walk together.

I drink wine on the porch,

white, your favorite.

Two glasses awaiting the sunset.

Amor,

pasamos juntos.

We walk together

Remember that when you feel alone.

Abigail

She looked beautiful, free, standing on the bench. The breeze tangled her brown curls and the sun burst into a smile on her face. The open plain was almost a challenge for her grace.

"When I was younger, I used to think that if I stood on a chair and thought hard enough I would fly away," she told me.

I smiled, watching her from her blanket in the long grass. It was warm out, and she had on a white polka-dotted red dress. I had on a yellow and white button down. We were on a picnic.

The bench was part of a table, one of those stereotypical wooden ones. It looked odd there, in the field, with nothing but grass for miles in any direction. I asked her how she knew about this place.

"I used to come here sometimes. When I got older I stopped thinking I could fly, but I still liked the idea of it, and I love the wind in my face. So, I would come here, on summer days like this, and fly my kite and think about what it's like to be up so high."

She turned to face me then, and I caught my breath in the silhouette of her head. I waved her over, and held her hand.

***

I still think we can fly, but I don't want to be the kite. They fly high, but they are always one string away from being free. I want to soar unfettered, unchained, emancipated. Come soar with me?

He Puts Pen To Paper

Resolved: That the consumption of alcohol by minors leads to inappropriate actions.

Contingent 1:

Last night.

I went over to his place, where the drinks were already made.

He was waiting for me.

I believe vodka has an adverse taste.

Contingent 2:

We took a shot of what could have been nail polish remover-

I hear they're practically the same-

and chased it with more of the same.

Production was sidelined for video games.

Contingent 3:

After orange juice and pink lemonade,

I certainly was open to anything.

Meaning, I believe I professed my love to him.

But! there are things to be said to the contrary.

1:

The drinks, though bad,

gave openness to our conversation.

2:

For a holiday, what could be more productive,

more American, than to drink and play?

3:

At least now he knows I love him,

and that is certainly something.

And although I drink to get drunk.

And although I hate the taste.

And although they had more fun,

in the spray of a sprinkler chase.

There is something worthwhile in being close.

There is something of note to note.

That although we make some mistakes,

acknowledging our loves was not one last night.