I'd like to be the cup of tea that keeps your cold hands company.

i like the way he says "your palm lines look the same as mine."
and i know he's really saying "hey, you're my soul mate."

the way he says "i can hear the smile in your voice."
when he's really saying "i love it when you're happy."

and he acts like he's accomplished something every time i giggle.
he smiles at me when our fingers lace, like it's his very first time holding hands.

scruffy jaw; cheeks rosy.
soft lips; deep breaths.
everything feels right.

i push him and tell him that he's being a butt,
his arms squeeze me tighter and he says that's just not enough;
he won't let me push him away.


and i love him when he looks at me like
he's falling deeper in love with every, single kiss.

we're falling deeper in love with every, single kiss.

fifteen days.

i'm

so

excited.

cold like midnight in aspen,

but then you come around
and embrace me with your arms;
a blanket around something lost
and shivering and more than slightly scared.

you come around and you
kiss my forehead;
warm me up like i'm on the beach
in the middle of july
with the only person
who could make things brighter.

wanna get lost somewhere and feel at home,

you always make me feel at home.

when we meet again, we'll probably talk about the weather. because that's what people do when they grow apart.

Broke your heart because you let me.
Shared your glances because you begged me.
Walked away because you gave me no reason to stay.

Hate the way that people always dress the same.
Hate the way that broken glass always sounds the same.
Hate the way that hair always falls the same.
Hate the way that thoughts always end the same.
The bruised, the damned, and the better off.

They'll play a game of King of the Court.
The only giving to be done is the headache you'll get.

You were never anything but a headache.

behold! a life full of everything you were expecting.

i'd like to read a story in the newspaper
that ends with "but she was just having a bad dream.
really, she's okay."

School supplies are therapeutic.

You walk down the rows of notebooks, pencils, rolls of tape; you think back to every time you've been in that same, particular row. That same, particular store. You know it was the same because these stores never close - people always need school supplies. But the colors have changed and the prices have changed and the designs have changed and there's a thousand different ink distributers you've never heard of.

You remember sitting in a cart and being pushed down the aisle by the boy with hair too long, and you remember going with him later that day to let him chop it off. His face was better hidden, but it was his sense of humor you liked; his sense of humor you grew tired of just one month later.

You remember sitting in a desk with folders sprawled in front of you, organizing the papers on the very first day of a brand new class. The kids weren't that interesting, but it was their shared interest you liked; their shared interest you grew tired of just one month later.

So you grab up something orange. It has a bird on it and it has a quote and the quote makes you smile because it sounds like something that could've danced along your own lips and probably did at one point. You take it, you buy it, you imagine the pages you'll fill with something wonderful. The truth is, it's going to hold the words you think when you're bored outofyourmind in your second period class. You'd rather just enjoy taking the damn notes, but life isn't about what you'd rather enjoy. It hasn't been since the very first time you stood in this row, grabbing a notebook, and imagining the pages you'll fill with bits of your life that are controlled by those who know better with out ever knowing you.

The truth is
They don't know better.
They never actually know better.
They know what they went through,
what held them back,
what got them ahead,
what challeneged them,
what inspired them,
what it took to get them where they are.
But where are they?

They're standing in front of a room that fifteen years before they were dying to get out of. They're spitting out words that fifteen years before they would've laughed at. They're spitting out words that they know aren't true because it's easier than admitting that nothing they're teaching you is going to add up to being happy; is going to add up to any life at all. They're getting you ready to be thrown in to a market and they're getting wrapped up in quota's of children; of robots. The historical reference in your second paragraph is much more important than any kind of dream you have, and they're trained to make you feel like it will always be that way. They forget to ask about your day; to care about your day. They forget to ask you what you do when you're not sitting in a room and being reprogrammed. They forgot, because they don't know, because they've been trained and now they're training you.

But there they are.
Spitting out words.
Trying to say that words are powerful.
Trying to say that they're helping you get out of there if you're just like them.
But where are they?

You don't reach any one when you recite the same meaningless points we've been fed since the third grade.
They're more redundant than any infinitive John's used in a paper.
They're fake. They're stolen by someone who knows they're bull shit just as clearly as you do.

Stop
feeding
me
bull shit
in the
form
of a
grade.

Stop
waving
my future
in front of me
like a carrot
that you
have
any
control
over.


I'd rather be pushed down an aisle in a cart, paying attention to the speeding tile beneath me, than slide along to peer at the assorted prices attached to the exact, same materials.

In two decades, I'm going to be happy, and that's going to be better than you.
I never had to study for an algebra test to know that I'll be better than you.

walking on sunshine.

dear ms. pollock,
even though it's really, really amusing when i try to call avery via evan's voice command,
and his cell phone calls you instead,
i'm still not all that fond of you.

and if you pull the crap
where you give someone a "99"
because "you don't give 100s"
when nothing's actually wrong with the work,
it's likely that i'll strangle you with your
long, nappy-ass, sadistically-red hair.

oh yeah! and stop referring to yourself on the assignment pages
as "ms. p"; your name only has seven letters and two syllables!
get the fuck over it and just say it.


kthankskissesbye.

you belong(to me).

you can't make the wind stop
just because you're feeling too cold.

you can't make the sun set
just because you're wanting to hide.

you can't make someone closer
just because you're head over heels.

but sometimes they love you just as much.
and they're closer just because they do,
and they'll hide you when it's all too much
and warm you when it's far too cold.

just because.

one and one make one.

hey pretty baby, play me a tune
to the sound of letters from me to you.
let the chords be your finger tips
and your scale be my skin,
travel along me while pitches change;
the seasons passing.

hey pretty baby, play me a tune.
place it on repeat like my kisses for you.
hold me close when we reach the chorus,
and we'll be one.

i promise
we'll always be one.

you're a snowflake,
i'm mid-winter;
it's disappointment when we're not together.
you're a leaf,
i'm early october;
the only place for you is covering me.
you're a run way,
i'm a plane;
you keep me safe and light my way;
the first thing i look for to know that i'm home.

september '06

He said, "I'm so mad I could spit."
I said, "Spit."
He groaned, "I'm so mad I could scream."
I laughed, "Scream."
He rolled his eyes. "It's not that easy, you know. You can't just scream and make the bad things go away."
I cried.
Why can't the
bad things
go away?

You know,

It's funny
how you called me honey
then called me bitter.

It's funny
how you called me yours
then stopped calling altogether.

Maybe I was bitter,
but I was definitely better
than anyone you're calling
tonight.

I'm glad you won't be calling tonight.

When I was sweet you were sour.
When I was wrong you were happy.
When I was up you were down.
And when I was letting go,
you came begging for a shot to come back around.

I'm glad you never came back around.

oh sinners; let's go down in the river to pray.

She's got lace around her ankles; support.
Like she'll ever get the chance to walk away.

She's cozied up; lost in monkey-printed pajamas.
Like she'll ever really sleep again.

He's got on a tie too nice for the day.
Like he's really going to end up somewhere.

They say that who you are when you're five is who you'll always be. And me? I bite my nails and think too much; I'm in love with a man who showers me in attention. He laughs with me and makes fun of me; almost makes me forget to think too much.

I think if I was who I was when I was five, I'd be a lot more approachable.

meaningless.

hey dad.
when you smoke in the laundry room
the clothes smell like smoke.

and then i have to wash them a billion times,
so that my favorite red sweater stops smelling
like a marlboro.

and by the third consecutive wash, when it
finally doesn't smell like an ashtray,
i've had over an hour to think up awful, painful
things that i would like to happen to you.

and i know that you don't care about red sweaters
or how a marlboro smells, but i do.
it'd be really neat if you could just step outside,
or stop buying them.

thanks.

kiss the ones you love good night.

he has the worst luck in the entire world.
and i should feel bad, but instead it makes me smile.


i can't wait
to make it all better.
all day every day,
him and i,
just floating along
and being better
than we were before.

best intentions; worst track record.

I
miss
feeling
good
enough.

I
miss
dancing
in the rain.

I miss
laughing
so hard that
my gut was
in knots.

I
miss crying
over people
who were
worth it.

I
miss
being
able to
talk to God
with out feeling
like I'm the
worst person
alive.

I
miss
understanding math.

I
miss
feeling smart enough.

I miss thinking that my writing
was any good at all.

I miss living for the sake of living and breathing for the sake of breathing and waking up everyday with something new to wake up for.

I miss living by the track I was placed on by those "above" me,
when the board of education meant something more than idiots who closed school for false calls of bad weather.


I'll wake up tomorrow and I won't have my folders of old tests staring at me. Of the awful, low numbers written in awful, bright pen on math sheets. Of science portfolio's marked over with corrections that needed to be made.

I'll wake up tomorrow, and I'll feel better.
But right now,
I'd rather not feel at all.

hate this and you and morning.

It only took
one day
for you to be
everything.

It only took
one year
for us to be
everyone's
idea of perfect
friends.

You knew me like
I knew you and we
knew how well we fit;
you and I,
the best of friends,
the perfect pair for
unperfect times.

And we understood when we thought
we'd found our perfect match in
someone else. They were special,
a kind of special that you and I would
never have with each other.

I had him,
and you had him and we had
ourselves and we thought
we had it all.

Remember the nights you cried?
Or the nights I had to stroke your hair,
sing to you awfully just so you could
hear something other than your own sobs.

Had a breakdown,
but had you to help me through.
Hit rock bottom,
and you faithfully made me rise.

We were human,
and we fought,
but God forbid anyone tried to step in between.
We'd tell them to step off, to find someone
like us for themselves and then fight and then have someone
else tell you when it's time to stop;
to find their someone who was always there,
who brought them up from rock bottom
and let them cry
and sang to them awfully just so they could hear
something other than their own sobs.

We said let us fight,
we know we'll make up.
we'll be better for it in the morning.


And then came a night
that had no morning.
Came a fight that had nothing
to be better for.
Nothing to make up for.
I yelled and you yelled
and when you cried I did not care;
did not sing.

I hit bottom and you didn't bring me up,
because you didn't even know what was wrong.

I fell with out you,
moved on with out you.
Laughed with someone else.
You watched my new friend walk with me,
our feet blending together in the shadows
from the surrounding cars.
And you cried to your new ones, too.
You knew he and I were merely replacements
for a time in our life
that we kind of wanted someone around.
And you knew that I knew the same,
but you were never one to come to terms
or listen to logic
or simply let me be.
So there you were,
crying to them.

I wonder;
did they sing to you
so you didn't have
to hear yourself?
Do they know that you wasted
away every day of your summer
with them just because I was
with him? And that your pride wouldn't
let you pick up my calls when
he and I weren't talking anymore?
That you're only as close to them
as you want to be with me?


They asked me, are you dating him?
I said no, he's only my friend.
They laughed, you're going to fall in love.
You two would be perfect in love.
And I wondered why they thought that every boy
who walked with a girl had to be there for the sake
of her lonely nights with no other boy.

Had a boy already;
missed a girl.
My heart was in tact
but my side was empty.


And now
You're here in front of me,
your name's popping up on an incoming call.
You say hey, I'll be there soon,
there's much I have to say to you.

We laugh just like we always did,
but morning won't ever come again.
There's nothing to be better for;
we don't need us anymore.

just because you paint a picture doesn't mean it fits the frame.

Honesty.

I would not love a daughter as much as a son.

I'm still as impatient as I was when I was five.

I prefer productivity to diplomacy and don't believe they always run hand in hand.

It takes me an hour to choose a book.

I'm saddest when leaves fall and grumpiest when snow melts.

I bite my nails and crack every joint possible.

I get goose bumps when I hurt or see something beautiful.

I hate falling and things that crawl and elitist, social glamour that makes room for me but not a perfectly amusing peer seated mere chairs away.

I'm annoyed by innocence, my respect is soley for those who've overcome.

I skip private time with God when I've recently lied.

I love politics more when it's obviously crooked, and would only live outside of the US for the perk of enjoying with out experiencing the consequences.

I look down on someone once they voice a disdain for reading or school.

I have too many secrets and moments of bad character to ever tell one person.

I love. God, myself, my friends, those I look up to and those I feel better than. With out limits, with out end, with out logic. I love the things I hate; the things that make me weak. I love my puzzle of a life and how it continuously proves that you can't force two pieces to fit. I love the piece that fits mine; the wave that crashes in to my shore and seeps up to my heart and pulls me out in to a pool of boundless melody. I love hollywood; I love the gutter. I love the damned and the mystery of eternity. I love bumps and smooth sailing; foreign cultures and childhood familiarity. I love reached goals and broken dreams.

I'm not enough;

I never will be.

But the realization is.

"hey unfaithful, i will teach you to be stronger."

"Let's run away to a place where the air tastes like rain and the sun shines like Sunday morning. You bring your laugh and I'll bring my sense of humor; and we can taste the days, one week after another."

"hey unloving, i will love you."

a "no smoking" sign on your cigarette break.

I believe that things have changed;
that locking your doors is necessary,
that the buddy system works,
that your best friend can lie,
that most relationships end,
that war will kill more good than bad,
that parents can be unfit,
that God has the dryest sense of humor.

But I can't help but also believe that sunrises are a gift;
that if you're pulled over long enough someone will help fix your flat,
that you can forgive with out sacrificing your pride,
that wars will always have an end,
that new generations can change a world,
that a stranger who smiles could merely be kind.



I realized today that I enjoy the feeling of someone crying,
of witnessing a break up or watching glass shatter.
I enjoy watching drinks spill, and hair fall out of place; scars and bruises and nails bitten to the cuticle. I'm enthralled by the look on a child's face the first time they lose at a board game, and when they realize they can trip with out needing to cry.

It's all so painful and imperfect.
It's chipped, old, broken, worn, faded, unimpressive and enough to change someone.
It's the closest to real we're ever given, and I love it.
Every second.

dear God,

"Yeah, I could do it. We both know you wouldn't stop me. So answer me please. Tell me what you're doing. Okay, let's look at the logic. You create man. Man suffers enormous amounts of pain. Man dies. Maybe you should have had a few more brainstorming sessions prior to creation. You rested on the seventh day. Maybe you should've spent that day on compassion."

- patch adams

You're my first good morning,

my last good night,

and the only grudge I seem to keep.

You and me,

we're a see-saw.

I go down in flames of giving in,

You dust me off with a "Don't do it again."

So why

am I always

mad

at You?

edit-

I understand your "what".

You are;

that's always been enough for me.

It's the others that keep me up at night.

Like how something's happening or why it's not being stopped.

What's your point? I see little gains for abundances of loss.

I see bitterness wrapping individuals in sin rather than hardships bringing them to their knees; Your feet.

I see resentment; little redemption.

We're coming up short. Down, out, lonely, cold. A whirlwind of disappointment that only stops when it's time to drop you on your ass.

The only thing I'm comfortable admitting to absolutely need is You.

I just wish You'd give others more reasons to say the same.

Nothing matters except for the life and the love you make.

i wish someone had said that to me.

Had friends,
wanted love.

Had the dreamer,
wanted the athlete.

Had the star,
wanted the poet.

Had words,
wanted kisses.

Had passion,
wanted space.

Had the workaholic,
wanted lazy days to waste.

Had the innocence,
wanted the fire.

Had the night of too much time,
wanted the second chance.
The chance to go back.

To have had less,
wanted less,
known less.

Had it all,
wanted this.

Have you,
want nothing else
ever.

lost(found).

what is a best friend but a single soul dwelling in two bodies?

I've got all the right memories.

The
movie stubbs,
concert tickets,
borrowed clothes,
superfluously decorated notes,
"bitch" stories,
adopted habits,
and unforgettable wounds.

So why
can't I
ever
get
attached?

I want to care so much that separation is reckoning.
That silence is deafening.
That a cold disposition could drive me mad.

It's so hard
because I've always been the one with the heart
two sizes too small.
Too many years too scared;
long ago tucked away.

And lately I find my heart is
coming out again. and
I have to admit:
it kind of seems familiar
here on my sleeve.

Like an old friend you find
you never really knew.

broken wings; promises.

You
say I'm much too proud.
Too right too often; too aware.

But
you missed the part where
I'm too gone to care.

Your eyes,
dull.

Your lips,
chapped.

Your hair,
gelled.

Your mind,
closed.

Your hobbies,
old.

So you ask
how I could walk away.
The truth is
I was never there;
and it wasn't
a long trip back:
To the days before settling filled my mind,
before I wasn't yours though you were mine.

I opened your door and said you're free to go;
you're the saddest bird I've ever known.




I used to be sorry.
Now I'm just happy.

apple of my eye.

tear old photographs off the wall.
toss the letters.
whisper condolences to those who won't ever know better.

pats on the back for people in love.
because happy is the state that's hard.
you've got something to work for and everything to lose.

but
the sweetest fear is that which is shared by two and worked on by both.

so
push away your past.
the one who gives you butterflies - let them in.



old photographs mean nothing
when he's worth
1,000 words
and double the kisses.

If it's ever really in someone's "nature",

I hope they'll say I remind them of Spring.
A fresh new start after bitter cold;
a brighter kind of youthful gold.
Children grow until they're old,
but why are hearts the first to go?

I hope they'll look back; think it's okay to feel.
Know that it only hurts because it's real.
I hope they'll have lived by way of smile.

When others tell them to accept the cold,
I hope they grin, for Spring they've known.
They'll say, "We know we grow until we're old,
but hearts don't ever have to go."
They'll offer a seat and extend a hand;
Invite the world to escape the mold.

eleven forty two.

john cougar mellencamp is filling my ears.
i should be resting my eyes, but instead i'm biting my nails.

i'm going to fail tomorrow and it's going to further serve the point of my personal inadequacy.

i never put much thought in to my body.
i was tall, and i had the features that i liked.
i was never lonely on the nights that it really would've mattered,
so i always thought i was doing alright.

it's my mind that makes me set my jaw late at night when i stand naked in front of the mirror, and that's a kind of insecurity that can't be solved by talk shows or ice cream or friendly pats on the back that are trimmed with gentle words of confidence.

i can't make myself focus on these ap courses. on these multiple, perfect scores. on the records that were broken and set by me, whether soley in the school or all of the state. i don't care, i don't care, i don't care. i'd throw my whole GPA out the window to simply understand mathematics and science. but i won't. i won't even try because i'll never grasp it naturally and i fucking hate myself when i realize that.

these are the terms i never wanted to come to.
this is the deal i never intended to cut.

you tell me i have a gift with words.
but words don't give you a gold trim to your blue cap.
words won't mean you give a speech june 8th, 2010.


even an artist can be neurotic and obsessive,
and i'm not perfect enough for my own standards yet.
these are walls i'll never scale,
and it makes me feel this big.

Even sunshine burns if you get too much.

"You'll live in New York, and I'll live in California. Our husbands will watch football together and we'll fly our children back and forth to see one another; because they'll be best friends just like us."

Good bye summer, halloween, christmas shopping and obnoxious valentine's gifts.
Good bye photographs, notes, and running down halls to embrace.
Good bye music video's and MTV competitions; being bitches together.
Good bye shared opinions and joint shopping lists and sincere profressions of caring.
Good bye four AM's and sleeping until noon; the shoulder I really could cry on.
Good bye number one on speed dial; largest frame on this stupid desk.
Good bye, good bye, good bye. You're at a place that I can't reach out and grab, and to be honest I don't think I really want to. You're out of my grasp, and out of touch. You're three classrooms and four months worth of conversation late, and I'm owning up to the fact that I never made an effort to bring you back any way.


And starting next week, you'll be next to me every day.

2 o'clock means an hour and thirty five minutes of the look on your face when you're not getting what you want, and the way you'll smile when you're too polite to let someone know that you want to gouge their eyes out.

An hour and thirty five minutes to watch you watch me walk in to the bathroom, your eyebrow raise when I return and you realize that the outline in my pocket is giving away the fact that I was only in there to make a phone call. You'll wonder who it was to, but you'll know it's not your place to ask - not any more. If you did, I'd lie, and that'll make you bite your inner cheek.

I'll talk to them and you'll talk to others.
We'll meet in the middle for awkward conversation and nostalgic moments of renewed bonding.
We'll meet in the middle for obligatory catching up, because we love each other too much to really let go.

We'll meet in the middle, but nothing's ever going to give again.


Good bye,
seventh
eighth and
ninth grade.
My partner in crime and
my bundle full of memories.

Crash and burn, or maybe just get married.

They say that when it's love, it's falling.
I'd have to say I disagree, but that's nothing new.

This isn't falling.
Falling is plummeting.
Falling is terrifying; falling is dangerous - people get hurt doing that.
Falling means you have to hit bottom, it means you have to crash. Falling means there's an end.

No, this can't be falling. This is floating; flying.
This is cleaner air and brand new heights.
Something new and untouched - an entire world ready to be discovered and traveled.
This is turbulance, bumps on the way through a journey that never quite ends.
This is flying on the wings of dreams and expectations and only being interrupted when a cloud of reassurance decides to help me on the way.
This is getting lost and deciding that maybe it's better that way.
This is something straight out of the story books; the kind of thing that's dreamt about but never touched due to pre-conceived notions of how things actually work.
This is hard, this is taking everything out of me, and this is giving me all the things I never knew I needed. It's the kind of nourishment you never knew you were lacking until you really feel the strength it gives you.
This is waking up after three hours of sleep and feeling like a champion.

Falling couldn't be this rewarding, and love isn't supposed to leave you down and out.

This is two feet planted safely on the ground; the ability to see where we're headed and the gift of loving every second of anticipation. This is flying, and it's magical.

The light inside me.

He's
fifteen minutes away,
one hour in to absence,
sixteen hours from being right in front of me,
and the only kind of number game
I'm willing to play.

He's
my morning cup of coffee
and my bed time story,
the blankets I'm tucked in to
and the doodle on the mirror after my shower's steamed it up.

He's
a rose in value and
a dandelion in composure.

He's
my starry eyed romance
and my second chance,
the risk I'll take
and the smile on my lips.

He's
my favorite dance,
my most painful tear,
and he's the words that spill out of me
time and
time again.

running on sunshine.

He looks like the first day of summer, smells like Spring and presses himself against me until he's covering me like the leaves of Autumn when they first touch the ground. He's a snow fall on a weekend and the perfect kind of melting when you need your schedule to resume as usual.

He's a shimmer of attraction when the light dances on his jaw and a delightful shade of cozy when the brightness dims, disappearing until we're settled in to nothing but outlines of one another, relying on touch and silly whispers for determining location.

His eyes make me feel like going for a swim, and never quite returning. His neck is constantly inviting me closer, silently egging me on until I'm thinking of how perfectly his scalp would feel beneath my fingertips, a smile dancing on his lips while I dote on him with well-deserved affection.

He's covered in hair; a cuddle to be reckoned with.
He's goofy; shy in a way that makes you want to melt his shell with kisses and awkward conversation.

He laughs at what I say because he's always thinking the same thing, and when his mind is aflight it never fails to join mine, drawing the most perfect, little hearts in the sky; out of clouds of love and longing.

Come now, there isn't much time,

Oh, there's never enough time.


To

learn chemistry.

check all messages.

get a massage, or have a manicure.

see him so much that I don't miss him once he's gone.

build a bear.

find new clothes.

get over being jealous.

forget old photographs, letters and state of mind's.

complete my full, extended bucket list.

not go outside of the lines when doodling.

make love in the thinnest of blankets after getting lost together.

stop and write the second that words come, so as not to lose them.

forgive with out strings.

love with out conditions.

help him never feel jealous again.

make up for all the lost time.

Poetry's only poetry when it makes you ache.

Chalk drawing on a driveway at 6 am,
"Will you skip the Sadie Hawkins dance with me?"

Wrong note and bad acoustics of a middle school band room,
"More air, more feeling, you're losing your touch."

Long strides across a quad to catch a glimpse of bad habits,
"Hey last November, I moved on with out you."

Deafening music and a crowd too large for such a small space,
"Greenestreet in the summer can only mean sweat, booze and something kind of magical."

Holes in the wall from the pins holding the photographs up,
"This makes me think of a Made For TV Movie, with better sexual tension."


Hey Spring, you came too late.
Winter's unforgiving and
Autumn's hiding from the tension that
Summer left in it's haze.

These things, they're broken. A million little pieces scattered across the lawn, just like a heart the night before a new school year.

Those people won't ever look at anyone else the same again; their eyes have lost all tints of hope and love.

But let's be honest, you were never about noticing eyes.
You were never about the shades of optimism that separated those who thought and those who did and those who simply looked back.
You weren't the kind for here's and now's or yesterday's or looking forward to's.

So what kind were you?
And more importantly, what kind are you becoming?

Artbreak.

Sometimes you see things and they make you want to write.
And it's never really promised that your heart will grant articulation.

You're guaranteed feeling and thinking and hopes.
You're never, ever going to be guaranteed the opportunity or ability to express such, or that any of them will really be worth what they'll get you in to.

I'd rather drive a tank than fall in love,
To explode is better than be silenced.
To fail is better than to miss out.
To break is better than to crack.
To kill is lesser than to flourish, but how often in life are the risks worth the possibilities?

But
I'm feeling optimistic,
more than likely out of feeling
equally lovey-dovey.
I'm thinking in terms of forever,
more than likely out of thinking
equally about a certain someone.
I'm hoping for the best,
more than likely out of hoping
equally for a good weekend.

And
it could mess up,
end in a month rather than eternity,
and be filled with further "inclament weather";
the kind only found in the clouds of your mind
that your heart won't provide a lining to.


Sometimes you see people and they make you want to fall in love.
And it's never really promised that their heart will grant entrance.
But when it does, it's worth the risks.

I'd rather be scared than never have fallen in love with him.

skeptics are the lesser of the broken.

katelyn: "good lord, how can you do that? you just spit it out. and it's perfect."


how do you tell her that you
write
because you're terrified to
speak
because you hate the way eyebrows
dance
when people listen to what you want to
say.
and you know that they're
judging
based on what you're
conveying
and you just aren't ready to
condone
their say in things you're
feeling.

We can live like this.

But if you left it up to me, everyday would be a holiday from real.
We'd waste our weeks beneath the sun.
We'd fry our brains and say it's so much fun out here.
When it's all over, I'll come back for another year,

I'll look for work today; I'm spilling out the door.
Put my glasses on so no one sees me.
I never thought that I'd be living on your floor.
But the rents are high and LA's easy.

Oh, it's a picture of perfection.
Ah, and the postcards gonna read,
"Fuck yeah we can live like this...
We can live like this"

- jack's mannequin.

not-so-new beginnings.

Happy birthday, Kyle.

You don't care about the fact that you're spending your 16th birthday sleeping through an economics review; a test you're going to fail.
Don't care that the only gift you've gotten was an organic juice that you seemingly don't enjoy, at all.
Don't care that tonight you'll go to your anime club, while we all spent ours lost in floods of balloons.
Don't care that some of us have had five classes per year together since 6th grade, but we didn't know it was your birthday.
Don't care that all we do know is that your water bottle is always full of rum; that your only-ever girlfriend came to dump you mid-class, mid-room.
You don't care that we never manage to show you patience, nor civility. That laughter heading in your direction has only ever been out of cruelty. That teachers don't know your name 6 months in and I look right past your brand new hair cut.
Don't care that you're an under-achiever, only because you've never tasted success.

Except, you probably do.
You probably care more about everything than any of us do.
But still, we look past that. We look past you.
And you care too much to show it.

So happy birthday, Kyle.
My present is non-acknowledgment, because what kind of loser needs a lesson in humility?

Happy birthday, Kyle.
I hope some day you wake up somewhere much better than here.

It's a big, big world out there.

The cynics say it's your accomplishments. It's your bank account and your property. It's how many times you've dodged being fucked over. That's your life. That's what you've done.

The romantics say it's the times you've been breathless and it's those nights spent on rooftops with the only person who's ever been able to make your heart race. Even if it didn't last, it's the memories.

That's your life. That's what you've got to show for it.

The politicians tell you that it's about what you've done for others and the things you'll leave behind. The educators tell you that it's what you pass on to the generation beneath you and how you handle the power that's going to be handed slowly down through out your life. The addicts will tell you that it's the days you've woken up and not touched a thing and still managed to crack a smile. A fourth grade child will tell you that it's the feeling of a cookie before dinner, sitting on the kitchen counter and having your hair ruffled by your parent rather than your palm smacked away.

That's your life.
That's what you've done.
That's what's going to be there in your place when you're not.
Because one day you won't be.
And six billion other people will.
The truth is that none of them are ever going to really know you,
none of them will ever really carry on that torch you hold for the love of your life,
that disappointment that follows you from the first test you ever failed,
the success that followed the business you started.

Maybe you'll write history, and they'll know your name. They'll know your birth date, the day you died and maybe even what you wanted to be when you were ten. They'll recite your interviews, word for word based on idolizing you. But will they know you?

Will they know that you didn't mind being too traditional or plain in the fact that you preferred roses above all flowers? Will they know that your favorite elementary school memories included a pajama day and the first time you colored in the lines? Will they know that the first snow of the year makes you cry and that you wanted to be proposed to in the rain? Will they know that the only way that you can throw a basketball is if it's done like that of a child, and that you're really good at it, just really embarrassed by it? Will they know that you were selfish; that you were jealous? Will they know that you watched Nickolodean through age sixteen and that occasionally the thought of old television episodes from your childhood could bring a knot to your stomach? Will they know that you loved to read simply because it beat talking; that as loud as you were and as outgoing as you were, you always relished the time that you could be the shy one? Will they know that you fell in love with someone years older than yourself, or that it happened more than once? That those boys weren't turned away due to you being a bitch, but merely because they didn't suit your taste?

Will they know any of that about me?
The answer is likely no.
The answer will likely always be no.
But maybe one person in your whole life; in my whole life, will know that.
And maybe that's all I'll ever have.
But that's my life.
It's what I've done.
It's what I've got to take with me when I'm not here anymore.
It's mine, and no one elses.

Why does that scare so many people?

Glass (photo album) half full.

it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.

- alice in wonderland.

The boy on the left is why I want children.

They're why I think I could handle it.

No matter what happens, I come to the realization that in my life, I have come across some of the very best people. They're frustrating and difficult and sometimes throw more my way than I could handle, but they've been helpful and strong when I needed them to be and tough when I needed them to be and gentle when I absolutely needed them to be.

I love people.

I wish everyone could say the same.

Yes, to the tune.

Hickory dickory dock, the mouse runs up to God.
He tilts his head and laughs away; says Son, you just don't cut it.
The mouse drops down and hits the ground; shattered in to pieces.
It picks them up; they crack again, and it weeps This is all I've got.
So it devises a plan and dies again; it's soul floats up to God.
He cocks his head and narrows his eyes; says That just can't fool me.
The soul weeps twice then fades away and travels back to earth;
settles six feet under and miles away from what it thought was all it had.

Hickory dickory dock,
what you give is what you've got.

you give me miles and miles of mountains; and i ask for the sea.

My middle name is discontent, and unsatisfaction is my game.

I miss the days where things fell in to place at the sound of a pen dancing across notebook paper. Facts flew along the pages, filling the lines until it all seemed to run together. New knowledge on a daily basis, and sometimes not quite assigned. I yearned and yearned for the books of history, for the new languages, for the new words. I ran out of plays and went on to poems, then novels. I found a niche in short stories and settled in with my own ideas, my own plots, my own personal satisfaction from the way that lips quivered or curled as reaction to the miniature worlds that I created in an individual's mind. I was proud, I was successful, I was something to be envied for the over achievers due to the little effort that I had to apply to be on top.

And now look. Those grades, they're slipping. They'll be up in a month when the new classes have settled in and I am in the rooms that make me comfortable, swallowed by the texts that I've read five or six times, writing the papers that I've jotted opinions down on just for fun already. I'll relish the comments of being brilliant, knowing instead that I was simply lonely at a time and found my place in this universe that they're just now opening up to the others. I'll laugh to myself and wait for the day that they're caught up, that I can't hold it over their heads that I'm giving answers before they've been asked the question. I'll lose my place on the pedestal of higher education, and simply ride the waves of compliments when it comes to creativity.

Why don't I care to learn any more? Give me novels, not facts. I know a billion people died that year but I've lost dozens on a personal level and it makes your plague far less interesting. Terminal illness? Oh trust me, I know cancer. Twisted poet? Oh, no worries, I've dealt with suicide. Those words, they run together; and I know perfectly well how to ignore a comma for the sake of creative license. E E Cummings? Read it with a red pen in hand. James Fray? Oh Oprah, who cares if it's fake - just look at the ideals! I hate the shine of Dr. Phil's head and my opinions on I Love New York Season 2 are as thoroughly developed as my stance on illegal immigration. Am I proud? I don't know. Am I brilliant? It wouldn't matter either way, so stop leaving those notes on my papers.


I miss the days of over achievement,
but I'm welcoming the days of easy sailing with open arms.
What happens when it's not so easy?
Right now I'm enjoying those eyes that peek at me in the midst of a film, who's arms reach out and pull me closer so that I can feel his breath on my skin. I'm enjoying the journey of growing with him, growing in him, sometimes beneath his nose and appreciating him in ways that he hasn't seen and I'm more than willing to not voice. This is my enjoyment, my miniature world of creative license and brand new facts to devour. It's enthralling and terrifying and far more beautiful than any Enlightenment thinker ever articulated when describing God and "hands off" economics.

But nostalgia's powerful; just strong enough to reach out and curl it's claws around my shoulders, dragging me in to a sea of faded memories and tattered photographs, wrinkled certificates and old letters that express feelings that have long since been gone; and most importantly, in to a sea of old accomplishments that I never truly wanted, never truly deserved.

I promise, dear textbooks, I miss you dearly. But your pages have gone so long uncracked and my grades have remained at a stance that does not yet make me sick... and for that, you'll stay closed. You'll stay where you belong, on the shelves for another who will want to devour you. I thought I needed you, when in reality I just used you as a way to not need anything else; anyone else.

Scholars get nothing but a certificate.
Those who live are those who succeed; are those who breathe with out limits.
I hate those limits,
but I love that certificate.

I'm torn between my mind and heart; they're not the same any more.

I swear I'm a believer.

The rest of our lives is laid out in front of us.
Maybe I'm crazy, but I doubt you could blame me;
the only pathe I see is the one intertwining yours.

The route of least resistance is only in our heads,
And the ideal of happy endings is planted in our hearts.

You're driving me crazy, but you're showing me home.

hands in my pocket and my head in the clouds.

Exhausted.
Motivated.
Direction-less.
Anxious.
Hopeful.
Envious.
Enthralled.

No story.
No poem.
No open thought.
Just letters I'm not comfortable sending.
Words I've choked down or laughed too hard over.
People obviously un-named.







1. I eat three, solid meals a day.
The first one's always for you and that argument.


2. I wish the same thing as you sometimes, I promise.


3. I'd have never looked at you like she does,
or like I look at him.


4. You're about to hit a brick fucking wall and it's your own fault.


5. "A friendship that can end never really began."
I'd like to admit I never really knew you,
but the truth is you never knew me. I didn't let you.
It's my fault, and I'm not sorry.


6. I used to think that you wrote my story when you fucked up. That your selfish, cowardess act would somehow find me and force me in to the same. So I let my own heart break, I let my weight drop and I kept my hair too short and my nails too dirty and my skin too pale and I was so, so crude. I smelt like smoke with out ever having to inhale from the rooms I was constantly locked inside of. Those were the best days of my life, and I think every broken person in the world is beautiful. You were beautiful, you just didn't see it. I don't need you to resurrect yourself in the form of my faith any longer, I don't need you back to find my own strength. I'm not you - thank God.


7. I have no words for you, because I'm constantly telling you my thoughts.

it's like the first mug of cocoa on the last day of winter.

My heart's skipping beats like a record with scratches.
You're the only thing I can think of to rub the smudges out,
To wind me up then lay me down.

I'd like to open up and show you around.
Here's your invitation to figure me out.
Stay for a while and make yourself at home,
Take a peek at all the things that no one's ever known.

It's safe to say that you're making me crazy.
This territory's new and unexplored.
Logic tells me this is scary,
but my heart says that it's right.

Nothing's ever felt this right.

I admit I never was the perfect one.

I'm exhausted.

I'd give anything to have someone show up randomly at my work with one of those.

I love them, and I need one today.

I don't have time to grab one on the way to work.

Eff.

My life is becoming a whirl wind

but I am stuck with tunnel-vision.

The light at the end is in the form of everything I want

and the means it'll take to achieve.

I give little regard for others and what

I could be doing for them in the time that I'm

striving for my own, personal goals.

I try to make it better by saying that I don't ask for much, that the things I want don't hurt others.

But does it help them? Probably not, not always.

Second semester leaves more time for being a good person.

Which in itself is relative and opionated.

I have one thing sturdy, rock solid, ready to catch me when the ground decides it wants to wrap it's arms around me. But what if I'm selfish with this, too?

mundane.

Purchases:
dinner, from ham's.
a fire-truck themed toothbrush that spins and simultaneously lights up, from food lion.
lindt milk chocolate truffles, from food lion.
orbit and 5gum, from food lion.
caramel macchiato, from starbucks.


What's needed:
twister sheet, from sarah.
project questions, from anyone willing to help.
ability to complete algebra dos, from teacher.
bag of individually wrapped candy for keyclub, from food lion.
inspiration to complete both theatre projects, from self.


Likely to get:
twister sheet, tomorrow morning.
project questions, through out tomorrow.
passed grade in algebra dos, due to major counselor sucking up.
individually wrapped candy, after pay check.
inspiration, from glare given so graciously by teacher.


Golly, I'm glad that I'm so awesome at prioritizing.
I'm even more glad that my sarcasm gives me the ability to complain with out ruining moods,
only my own.


The planet itself is given the ability to spin, by schedule, on an axis. It's planned and orchestrated by whatever you happen to believe created or caused existence, and can be constantly counted upon. I, on the other hand, spin by the hand of the clock. The bell signals my new season and the rush of people are the waves that wash me clean, allowing new beginning with old trials.

I'm sick of old trials.
I'm sick of new beginnings.
Give me something constant and stead-fast,
something I want to be consistent.
And then show me it always. Let it ring through my head
like that wicked bell, and surround me like the clock
spins through my mind, guiding my life.
I'd like to base my life around something that matters.
Algebra Dos and Chemistry don't count as such,
credits don't count as such,
those waves and waves of people who come to wash me clean
but never fully let me begin anew
certainly don't count.
I'd really like for something that counts.
Please and thank you.

make someone happy.

"You have to be the change you want to see in the world."

"Love can't always be perfect."

"You have to grow up at some point."

Lies,
lies,
lies.

You only have to be what's natural and comfortable for you. No alterations necessary. If it does not fit in to someone elses idea of what the world should be - and believe me, it won't - then you'll have taught them a valuable lesson. Tolerance, even when someone isn't being easy. The ability to tolerate within itself will help mankind tremendous amounts, possibly more than recycling ever could.

The way you love your spouse and your children and your parents and your closest friend and your favorite teacher and your first pet and "the one that got away" will all be exceptionally different from one another. They're each real and beautiful in their own little way, and the fact that they sustain despite hardships is perfect. The most perfect thing that you could ever muster as a human being.

The only thing you are obligated to do as a human being is spend an amount of time with another human being that somehow leaves them better than they were before. Whether you do this at age twelve or forty five or fifty with the mental capacity of a four year old, it's the only thing we should have to do.


Granted, I'm speaking from the perspective of someone who strongly believes in Locke's idea of people being inherently good and J.M. Barrie's idea of never having to walk away from something that you don't truly want to and my own interest's heart that's filled to the point of bursting with how much we care. And granted, I'm a realist and believe that optimism is completely applicable no matter how much shit you've seen in your days. And granted, not enough people will read this to challenge me so I'm taking a safe approach.

But hell, there's safety in innocence.

you must be a pirate with all that booty you get.

The sun shines as the temperature rises, greeting a full number of 65 before steadying off.
But I am chilled, covered in these layers of clothing.
I shiver, looking around and half expecting to see you looking right back.
It's only my mirror, and my own personal reflection. I catch myself; let out a breath of shock.
I leave my chair and take tiny steps forward, staring all the while.
My eyes and yours' are two different colors, two different shades, all logic says I'm crazy,
but my heart is telling me that I'm staring right at you.
That your eyes are what's piercing mine, are what's holding me there.
I nod, understanding finally and enjoying the resolve that my own acknowledgment warrants.
You are a part of me. The best part, the most redeeming quality.
And while I've seen myself a thousand times in the mirror, getting ready first thing in the morning after just having dropped my towel to the floor;
I won't be quite complete until you're watching me, first thing in the morning after I drop my towel.
Need your arms.
Need your eyes.
Need your breath.
Need it to rise.
Need your chest to fall.
Need your hands to roam.
Need eskimo kisses.
Need real kisses.
Need undressing so fast that we stumble.
Need your skin.
Need your hip bones on mine while you pull me to you.
Need your eyes watching mine.
Need need need.




You're a part time lover and a full time friend.
The monkey on your back is the latest trend.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

I kiss you on the brain, in the shadow of a train.
I kiss you all starry-eyed, my body swinging from side to side.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

Here is the church and here is the steeple.
We sure are cute for two ugly people.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me.
So why can't you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

I will find my nitch in your car.
With my mp3 DVD rumple-packed guitar.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du.

Up up down down left right left right B A start.
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

You are always trying to keep it real.
I'm in love with how you feel.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you .

We both have shiny, happy fits of rage.
You want more fans, I want more stage.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

Don Quixote was a steel driving man.
My name is Adam, I'm your biggest fan.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

Squinched up your face and did a dance.
You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants.
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you.

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you.

paradise.

he makes me feel like

dancing at 4am,
in the middle of the street.
those cars will wait for us.

or singing at the top of my lungs,

in the middle of a crowd.

those throngs will part for us.

or writing him a story instead of doing work,

in the middle of a class.

those notes will replay for us.

or wrestling beneath the sheets to the sound of birds,

in the middle of the morning.

those days will stall for us.

that anything, anything, anything can happen,

in the middle of our life.

this love was made for us.

obligatory self-reflection.

we live on front porches and swing life away.

we get by just fine here on minimum wage.

if love is a labor, i'll slave 'til the end. and i won't

cross these streets until you hold my hand.

I believe in
opening doors for strangers;
having only one, true love;
forgiving with out forgetting;
speaking not just up, but out;
Christ.


I hate
when people can't make eye contact;
poor hygeine;
hypocritical politics;
played out TV shows;
being so jealous.


The Bucket List
finish a novel.
cry in front of someone.
forget his birthday.
learn how to crip walk.
dance in ireland.
have sex in a university library, in his car, in someone else's shower
and on the kitchen counter, late late late at night, when there's guests over.

The Wish List
completed<3.

Live love.

You told me that words were the most powerful thing in the world. I took that sentence to heart. To soul. It was everything I was based upon; I had the gift of the most beautiful thing in the world. And then he laughed, and I knew you were wrong. You were lying to make up for those who would never experience the sound of a laugh that could make every thing else fall in to place, or you were wrong because you, yourself, had never heard that laugh. I see the ties you've made and the bridges you'll never burn, and I pray to God you were lying for the sake of others; I pray to God you've heard that laugh and that you haven't settled like all the others. I pray you've felt arms around you and despite your size or past or especially your present state of mind, that it made you feel safe. I hope you've opened the door for a stranger, just because someone in your life has made you feel like everyone's got to be worth something. And I hope late at night, when you're laying in your bed, your ceiling takes the forms of a rickety old bridge with all the important planks missing. I hope in the pit of your stomach, you ache. And more than anything, I hope you take a step despite your fear. I hope you leap and pray and pray again when it's unanswered. I hope you fall and break and that when you're fixing yourself, you have help. Everyone should find themselves staring at their ceiling and feeling like deep in the pit of their stomach, they ache. And then they should break. They should be inwardly destroyed. And when they wake up, I pray that they're better. I pray their ceiling; their rickety old bridge, is a tunnel. I pray they see a light and I pray it's in the form of a heart. A beautiful heart that's not their own, but somehow fits perfectly inside of the cracks of the one that's beating twice as fast from inside of their own broken rib cages.

It may not be words,

but I've got the gift of the most beautiful thing in the world.

And then came morning.

I liked the way the smoke covered the room
as everyone tried to impress themselves with their
means of distraction from the fact that Paul wasn't around
so neither was his handy, dandy palm of pills.
I was on the couch.
I did not speak.
Mike came up to me, fed me a line.
I did not speak.
Fed me line number two.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
His feet move as quickly as his lips.
I watch him.
Mike's cute.
He dresses nice and has several redeeming qualities,
which is much more than can be said
for half of the other gentlemen in this room.
But Paul's palm was all I wanted.
All anyone wanted.
I laughed.
Benjamin walked by.
My eyes followed.
You hate these parties, we've been inviting you since seventh grade.
But of course he did not hear my thoughts.
He was alone, I knew he was.
Benjamin was always alone.
Apparently a football jersey was not, in fact, enough
to make people forget that your mother
is the PTA leader from hell,
and your father is an in-
mate for the second time this year,
and you're the one who is
studying all the time, then rubbing it in our
faces when you ruin our curve
and we all repeat biology
a second time.

My thoughts scrambled when Paul walked in,
his beautiful fist closed around what
may as well've been my life.
My lips curled,
I probably felt more mischevious than I looked but
I felt good.
Ben met him at the door. I felt a chuckle rise from
the pit of my stomach when I remembered how we all
used to call him Benjammin'.
Then came fourth grade
and then came the reading tests
and then came Ben always winning
and then came no one wanting to talk to him.
But there he was.
Benjammin'.
He was talking to Paul
and Paul was laughing like an asshole
because Paul is an asshole.
He opened his palm.
Red. Green. White, white, white.
Different sizes and even more different effects.
I knew Paul knew what I wanted.
I knew I wore the shirt that would make Paul
give me what I wanted.
So I waited while everyone else crowded.
I watched Bob get a blue and Crystal get a yellow
and Mark pushed Charlie over the tiniest white
while Tyler tried to talk his girlfriend in to not taking one at all.
Good try, Ty. But she's grabbing a red.
And everyone knows red's last 'til dawn.
Paul elbowed Ben, "make a decision."
Ben's mouth tightened and he reached for a white.
A big white.
I felt my eyes widen a bit.
Hey buddy, that's a downer.
Everyone knows not to take downer's when
you don't have a date and there's
a crowd full of people who hate you.
You'll break, buddy. Put it back
and grab yourself some green, instead.
The kind that's not in Paul's palm.
Paul's palm isn't safe for you.
My thoughts were interrupted with that beautiful, dangerous palm
being thrust in to my face and his laugh filling
my head. I took in his scent,
as awful as always.
Then I took my poison,
and I grinned. An upper. The upper to make them all
seem like downers. I would fly.
I've been needing to fly.
And I laughed while Paul walked away and I curled
to the corner of the couch, watching everyone else
enjoy their time and
feeling like heaven was just in my reach.
I saw the beautiful light,
but then I saw Ben's back.
He was walking through the crowd.
He was still alone.
He was looking around.
This time, he knew it.
He knew he was alone.
He could feel it
and it was breaking him.
You could tell by how slow his movements became,
and the way his hands ran through his hair nervously,
and the way he picked a new direction every time someone's hand
touched someone elses
because no one wanted
to touch his.
Benjammin', I'll be surprised if you last 'til morning.
Even my thoughts came out flying, forming before I could decide against them.
I hate when that happens.
I closed my eyes.
I finished flying.
I accepted the fact that I'd only had one
and hadn't washed it down
and hadn't found green that wasn't pills
and was coming down quicker than others.
So I went to sleep.

And then came the morning.

Everyone was moving slowly,
they were just now coming down.
Paul looked happier than I'd ever
seen him, on the floor with
five girls and four bottles
and an empty, empty palm
which meant a full, full wallet
and new best, best friends.
I got up.
I got my bag.
I walked outside.
I made it to the mail box,
thinking I'd walk the two miles
home just like I'd walked the
two miles there. Instead my mom
met me, just pulling in to the drive way.
Her eyes scanned the fact that I still
had on the same clothes. "I won't ask."
My eyes just met hers, I did not care to scan.
"That's probably best." My voice sounded weird to even myself.
She pointed to the back seat. "Janet's son is in the hospital."
I knew that she meant our family had to
be supportive so I climbed in to the car and
shut my eyes again. I enjoyed the five minutes of peace
that comes with your mommy driving you around
at the age of seventeen,
just before my heart stopped.
What was the name of our PTA leader from hell, again?
"What's Janet's son's name?" I sounded more concerned than I'd ever, ever like to admit.
"Ben, why?"
I definitely
wasn't flying
any more.

So then came the hospital.

We looked at the waiting room and saw no one familiar.
So we walked down the halls
and of course, as can be imagined
with a frantic mother and a stupid son,
we heard her before we saw her.
We took a right, based on sound, and there she was
being ushered by doctors,
her eyes louder than her voice
which was shrill.
The doctors told her to calm down,
she moaned, "how can I be calm when you
say my son might die but I can't
hold his hand?"
The doctor countered, "how can we help your son
when you won't let my nurses
calm down and hold his hand?"
She glared. He did not mention Ben's possible
death. Only her definite irrationality.
I had to stifle a laugh.
I went to the waiting room.
I let them all whine.
I let them be supportive. I slept.
I woke up after only fifteen minutes.
Oh Ben, you're so stupid.
And that's when I heard the scream again.
And I knew Ben was in the position to hear me.
Ben was the type to go to a better place,
so I didn't pay attention to the fact that he
was in that hospital at his own hand;
at the decisions he made based on what was
in Paul's perfect, awful palm.
I just paid attention to the fact that he was honest
and handsome
and I always pictured angels as handsome,
so that's where he belonged, right?
I knew better than to suggest such to Janet.
I met my mother outside of his room,
Janet was in my her arms.
I looked at the rush of doctor's moving in to the room.
I did not cry.
I did not speak.
You don't take downers at a party
where everyone hates you
and you don't have a date. Who, then,
will hold your hand and tell you
that you're worth it and they, too,
feel alone in a room of fifty? You end
up wanting to get away
any way you can. You succeeded
since you're smart. But Ben,
you're so stupid.
I tried to care but it did not work.

I'd left my heart next to a puddle of vomit,
in between a plaid couch and it's striped cushions
in May of '84.

My soul had long before been sold.

I'm so hollow, baby.

"It's not up to me anymore.
If you want me in your life,
you'll find a way to put me there."



ps, fuck your tar heels.
pps, i'm sorry for using the f-word.

my rose bowl champion is nothing but wilted.

Ten months ended over two years ago.
And a year and a half began to be built.

Ten months hung around long after it should've been forgotten.


And just two months ago
a lonely 4AM would lead to
nostalgic messages.

The champion would be slurring
from the three hours of drinks while I was
warped from the five CDs
that he had been made for us.

They were still spinning

in
my
mind.

By 6 the drinks weren't enough to be an excuse
and the affection came intentionally.
It was acid to an open wound
that would've been healed
had it not been for too much time
and too little remorse.

CD tape runs out.
Songs stop.
I breathe.
I breathe again.
I tell him, "you should go."
He laughs, "you don't mean that."
And I, "it's for the best."
So he, "what would you know about best?"
My lips quiver, "You're right, I only know about second."
His voice drops, "only when you slowed down."
I, "I've never been good at final stretches."
And then he knows that I was right
and it's time for him to go.
He says good night
he calls me baby.
I breathe a little less
but only because I'm keeping up with my heart.
So a notification on the right part of my screen appears
to let me know that my champion has met his match
and is drifting off to sleep.
I weep.
I weep.
I try to breathe.
I weep harder.
My mind's enraged
at how weak my heart is
over the realization of
how easily my body caves in.
I weep.
I weep.
I weep harder.
I think that nothing's ever going to take this away.
So here I'll be, four score and twenty years ahead,
weeping
breathing
mourning.

Then comes December,
the most magical time of the year.
My champion has been silent for a few weeks
and my year and a half seems to be going magically.
But I weep
I weep.
I weep harder.

I mourn the lack of ache
at someone's distance
because I hate realizing
that I have no one to miss
even with someone so perfect
right next to me.

But it was December
and December is magical
and it once again provided it self as such.


My champion's only rust now.
Our 1800 miles of distance won't ever
compare to the distance in my heart
at the embarrassment I feel when
I realize that he used to be everything.

There's so much better out there.
And

4am's aren't lonely
when you've got someone
who always makes you feel like
it's the first day of summer
and anything can happen
because love means it's
December all the time.

You've painted my sky,

I am devotedly your star
and our happy ending
is not all that far.

I like the way your hand fits mine

and I will hold your heart in mind.

You don't have to leave for me to know I need you.

Stop waiting, the world is changing.

She groaned as her hands went to her forehead, "You've been promising for ten years."

He rolled his eyes, unmoved. "It's just a closet."

She shook her head, "It's everything."

He, "It's just a closet."

She, "It's always just. Just anything that lets you off the hook."

He, "You keep records just to keep up steam."

She groaned again.

His eyes rolled twice.

She walked away, he did not follow. She closed the door, he did not pursue.

And I stepped in to the hall, "you two always bicker."

Her voice came muffled while his travelled soundly. "You have no right to speak."

I, "About this or in general?"

And they, "about this."

So why my heart swelled with affection, I could not say.

Just perhaps that some day there would be something that I had the right to speak about.

That's more hope than they ever gave.

Good bye, old hostility; I'm sure we'll meet again.

For now, new times.

They bring peace.

ROFLcopter

Mother: Beth Anne!
Daughter: W-U?
Mother: Your cell phone bill is what's up! All this texting!
Daughter: O-M-G, I-N-B-D.
Mother: It is a big deal! Who are you texting 50 times a day?
Daughter: I-D-K, my B-F-F Jill.
Mother: Tell your B-F-F Jill that I'm taking away your phone!
Daughter: T-I-S-N-F!
Mother: Me paying this bill, that's what's S.. N.. F!



I like watching Nickolodean,
even with a lack of updated episodes due to the strike.

I like getting cranky and yelling for no reason, just to feel a release.

I like eating cookie dough for breakfast,
on my kitchen counter in super hero briefs.

I like spinning in my chair,
Vitamin C's "smile" filling my ears.

I like knowing facts, figures and quotes;
choosing instead to just say your point was dumb.

I like the fact that I woke up late, which means I'll stay up late,
which means I'll sleep through first period again.

I like the fact that he thinks I hung the moon,
when I can't even wear white with out spilling.

I really, really like the fact that I accept age
while fully rejecting "maturity",
for my logic remains with zero need to give up
unstructured amusement and aimless laughter.

"You're the cheese to my macaroni"

"Tell me something. Anything. But make it worthwhile."

I remember telling him that one night. It was 3AM, I was in the sixth grade and he was in the seventh. He should've been in the eighth, but his family moved at the beginning of his kindergarten year and he missed the sign up date for his school, so they had him wait a year. I felt special, you know. He was talking to me. To me. I couldn't tell you his eye color. I couldn't tell you the kind of clothes he wore or the way he cut his hair of his hands were soft or large or stubby. I couldn't tell you a thing that counted, a single detail that matter. But he wanted to talk to me and at that point, that was enough.

He told me that he hated carrots.
I felt heartbroken that that's what he wanted to tell me.
Why does it matter if you hate carrots? I wanted to scream at him.
Why does it matter? Why don't I matter? Why can't I matter at every single second of every single day or when I want to matter and why can't you forget me when I don't want to matter because we both know that when we walk by each other in the halls you are not going to matter to me. Why why why why? Why aren't why's ever answered? Why's are the most important questions in life and often the most rhetorical, and it's a sad thing to see if you really think about it.

But sometimes Why's are answered.
Sometimes you get to figure out why you didn't matter when you wanted and why you couldn't step away from it at a moment's notice.
Sometimes your Why becomes unrhetorical.It's never really verbal, but it's enough.

You're why.
You're why it doesn't matter that he hates carrots - because I don't fucking care what he puts in to his stomach as long as it's miles away from me and keeping to it's own phone calls to other girls because I'm busy paying attention to you.

You're why I didn't matter only when I wanted, because people are never as specific as they'd like to be and the only times you matter in the way that you want is when you're absolutely turned off to the individual who cares. At least, usually. But there's special times. There's special people who matter as much as you do, but only to each other. And when you want them to be your best friend and make you laugh instead of batting their eyelashes against yours or quivering beneath your grasp, they some how know. Those are the answer's to the Why's. Those are the people who know when you should matter and when they should matter and that often in life it's not at the same time - but they make it happen any way.

You're why I couldn't simply matter at the distance that I felt comfortable with, because I needed to push away every single individual who crossed my broken path until I felt like walking along with someone. You're why his sideways glances in the halls didn't count and why every crying phone call from every man who wanted a sideways glance from me didn't matter. You're why I was cold and mean and distanced and why I let my own heart break instead of trying to fix it.

You're why why why why. You're the answer to all the why's. You're the important question in life and thankfully not rhetorical. You're the most beautiful thing in the world and make every sad thing go away, even all the unanswered why's. You're everything verbally awesome and everything symbolically wonderful. You're why, what, who, how, when, where. You're what matters and counts and makes sense and confuses me at the exact same time. You're what I miss and tear up over and grin at the thought of being next to me. You're what hurts, you're what sustains. You're why a 3AM, sixth grade conversation never measured up to shit and why I never learned a lesson from the boys that I hurt. You're why I'm stubborn, you're why I was broken. You're why I stopped eating that one year and why swimming stopped counting. You're why I run. You're why I laugh. You're why I love the sun but I love the snow and I'd let my hair be fucked up for the rest of the night if only I could have a dance in the rain. You're why I write and why it counts and why on earth it can sometimes make sense. You're why I'm crying right now, because I never thought that something could be so fucking fulfilling while so far away - even if far away is only a few minutes. You're why your laugh was enough to trip me and falling wasn't good enough, I had to fucking roll.

You're why sad music makes me happy and happy songs make me dance and why angry music always made me want to run. You're why I'm addicted to coffee and lip balm and minty gum. You're what makes me love hygeine and showers and the feeling that you have right after you cry even though I hate the way you feel when you wake up from a nap. You're why I was sick that one time in seventh grade and why by eighth grade I was immune to just about any fucking thing. You're why I wake up and go to school when I have zero missed courses and could take a day or two off. You're why I finally take off when I do. You're why I won the O. Henry award and why the plaque is above my wall despite all the other awards I've won since. You're every trophy and every ribbon and every belt in Karate. You're my favorite flower and my favorite meal and the cutest shape of any cloud I've watched by. You're the waves in the ocean and the scent in the air right before it rains, but only when the air is crisp and everything feels okay.You're the feeling I have after I watch Enchanted and the squeaky sound beneath sneakers that little kids love. You're every drawing I've ever doodled and every story I've ever kept. You're all the ideas inside of me, you're why I bite my nails and the feeling that I get when I stretch before a work out. You're the wonderful release of cracking a knuckle, as mundane as eating with a spoon. You're as extraordinary as building the houses on every mission trip that I've ever taken and all the problems that I face in Algebra courses. You're the frustration that I find in Chemistry and the exhiliration that I find in Government. You're why this didn't turn out to be the simple paragraph that it was supposed to be. You're why Happy Feet wasn't stupid when it talked about a heart song and you're the only person who will know how important that is without even having seen the movie. You're why I want a family and why I think I could be happy. You're why the words keep coming and the tears keep rolling and I miss you so fucking much but I've never been as happy. You're why I was angry and why I was sad and every crack in my heart and every single laugh I've ever experienced. You're the steps that I take and the octive that rises my voice when things upset me. You're my valentine in mid-June and my angel when everything feels like it's six feet under. You're the past week and the rest of our lives in the tiniest, greatest package I never saw coming. You're my Richard Gere and Tom Hanks and Ryan Gosling and every actor who ever portrayed the feeling of love, but you're better because this is truer and we are better and we don't have a period where credits roll and people file out because the story has ended. You're the flowers outside my window and the sound of my morning bagel popping up. You're the first snow of the year in winter and the first drop of rain after a summer-long drought. You're the boat beneath me that allows me through the water and the warm sun I bathe in when there's nothing left for comfort. You're the feeling of confidence when a haircut comes out great and the insecurity that comes with being human. You're the feeling of a basketball game when you're favorite team has won and the flutter in your heart when your favorite band takes the stage. You're the scent of my favorite University and my favorite season. You're my favorite color, my favorite song, my only choice and the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're every thing. You're everything.

You're my Christmas, my gift from Christ when the road to Him was far too foggy and I didn't even realize it. You're the man that I am hopelessly and carelessly and wonderfully, vulnerably in love with. So tell me something. Tell me anything. You're more than worthwhile.

The entire point of this was to tell you that I want to give you late nights and horror films. Hot chocolate, forehead kisses, fingers through your hair and cheesy pictures with santa clause. Aimless "I love you"s, and even more aimless drives. You've got my whole heart and soul. I want to give you the stars and the moon, soft touches and playful bites and less-than-tender scratches with my nails while arching my frame above you in your bed. I want restless nights and stupid fights that're solved with teary kisses, and wandering hands once we've made up; heavy sighs and happy tears and dozens of years with a bunch of time simply to repeat.

Exit 24, Left on Johnson, I-40 and up, up, away.

I'm noticing a pattern.




I'll be the water-wings that save you if you start drowning
In an open tab when your judgment's on the brink
I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite
Albums back as your lying there drifting off to sleep...
I'll be the platform shoes and undo what heredity's done to you...
You won't have to strain to look into my eyes
I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped-straight to the throat
With the collar up so you won't catch a cold

Give all your shit away and start living.

Everyone complains now-a-days. Life's not fair, life's not fair. And they're all so wrong.


Maybe I'm a realist or maybe I'm a cynic, but I've never met a person who didn't truly deserve the shit that they were getting. Your best friend's knife is wedged between your vertebrae just in time for your dad's fist to meet your jaw? Mommy doesn't talk to your Uncle because he tried to touch you a couple of Easter's ago and that bitch down the street is holding hands with the only guy who's ever made your heart sing? Well how many times have you lied? How many people in the world are sitting at home, crying to themselves about life's not fair because of something you've done? How many tests have you cheated on and curves have you broken; what about those meals you skipped and those hearts you broke and those questions you never answered because that person just wasn't important enough? Well I'm sorry that life's not fair to you, but it is. You're putting in just as much shit as you're getting, and maybe you're not a monster but you're sure as hell not an angel. Gather those knives up and go the fuck home, teach your kids how to be better and forgive them when you realize that they're never going to be. No one makes it to the end alive, so I'd say it'd be best to enjoy every breath you take while you're digging your grave. Come six feet under, you'll have lived - and you didn't do much, but maybe that was enough.

Dear heart,

I'm ready for you to go.
I just have no idea where you're going to end up.
So, I'm sorry if it hurts.
But I'm not sorry.
I'm not sorry one bit.
You might not trust him sometimes, but I do.


nthng mttrs mr thn ths, knw ts tr.