revelry

I choose to write
my affections
in cursive smoke-

so that when
once again
my fondness
becomes worthy
of laughter

it will
dissipate in the air,
gone, forgotten.

The trouble with needing to find
beauty in everything

is that
some things are just

ugly.

words of wisdom

"You can just tell driving in... It's all different, it's all the same. Some people change and others stay who they were."

Gone are the days I bow to you
Over a feeling delusory and untrue.


Forgiveness, my bones do refuse to give.
Ugly is the truth, how you live.
Coerced to play the game of trust,
Knowing now, heart swathed in rust.


You’ve caused my mind yet another plague:
On sunny skies, cloudy days; and
Under the wind-stripped limbs of a giant birch
Rose did my mind, led by the lips of earth.
So my eyes swam on the palm of the moonlit tides,
Empty my soul no longer lies.
Life is very bearable without your "affection".
Fuck you, for inflicting my existence with that malediction.

this is from

my more private blog that I don't tell people about

and I don't even know that person... wow

feels so nice..

you couldn't wait for me to get home

you blew off the plans you had to see me

you looked at me with eyes smiling

you let your friend leave without you so you could stay

you helped me with everything

you held me when I cried

you always know when something's wrong

you slept over

you never let go of me

you told me how beautiful I looked right when we woke up

you tuck my hair behind my ear

you consistently remind me of

how special I am and

how much you miss me

Nocturnal

we creatures of the night,
we children of stardust,
drawn out
like moths to the moon;
to explore the oceans
of mist and shadow
that linger about,
to dance
in the wet grass
with naked feet,
warm,
alive.
yes,
we were alive,
we inhaled the night
and savored the taste
of it
on our lips
and tongues
and deep down
in the caverns of our lungs,
we lived
and breathed
while the rest of them
could only dream.

To write
    is to be
       is to see
    is to feel
is to seal
in the gaps
between your heart
and your mind
so you may continue
to create and weave
these precious words
that contain
so much meaning

turn that shit uuup

"I take it in stride one day at a time,
if I ask no questions I hear no lies.
How come blessings only come in disguise?
I try to emphasize as i vocalize.
Ain't nothin' gunna get between me and my flow,
ain't nothin' gunna come between me and my afro.
My man just, left what do ya know.
Easy come, easy go.
He came out of the blue
and went right back into it,
he had to forfeit cause he couldn't get with it.
Called it quits and when he split
he said he didnt have time
for my juvenial bull shit.

There's only one me in the galaxy,
I am an indangered species.
This kind of flower don't grow on Earth,
just lettin' ya know for what it's worth.
This kind of action can cause a depression
so I bide my time with philosophical questions.
Not for nothin', but what came first,
the chicken nugget or the egg McMuffin?
I got talent and I got tits,
I know I'll find another guy that wants to get with it.
I'm not convinced that I'm a big fat whore,
one man's pleasure is another man's chore."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1ltDw_Oi24&ob=av2n 

clouds came on time

why is rain
looked upon
as a miracle

while tears
are looked
at with regret?

we are not
tied emotionally
to the drops
of a cloud

but tears,
no doubt,
leave scars.

do we consider
feeling
a passage,
something we are
born with?

i don’t think
that’s right.

i think
feeling
is the miracle,
and rain

is there to
wash it away
when we aren’t
ready for
anyone else
to see

what it looks
like when you
actually
care...

impressions

You can’t always get what you want. Just because something feels real doesn't mean that it is, or even though things go to shit, it doesn't mean that what you felt wasn't real. Life is about fingerprints and footsteps: those shadows we impress upon each other... however shallow such impressions may grow to be.


We walk out of this world with dimpled flesh and hearts tattooed with half-finished conversations, shards of wine glasses, sarcasm honed to a razor’s edge, and endless sentries of streetlights — those caustic Philistines who ever bore witness to our shame. The thing is, we like to write until there is an ending, until a sole dot punctuates the deep silence hanging above resolution like a halo.


But death is not a period. For many of us, at least, there is no curtsy or curtain call... There is no fading out into blackness while violins and cellos frame our exit. When we mourn, it is not because it's the end, but because there is no resolution. And we mourn and we mourn because our skin still prickles and the goosebumps come at night until the weight of everything we can’t forget becomes eternal.

sneezy

i think what i felt for you 
was something like a sneeze: 
i felt it coming before everyone else... 
starting out slow, just a tickle 
easily ignored, until it rushed forward 
all at once, overwhelming, 
and at that point I knew 
it was gonna be messy 
so you handed me
some bullshit tissue 
without saying ‘bless you’
and maybe it took
me a while to clean up,
make myself presentable,
but eventually
i threw that "tissue" away 

without saying thank you

and life carried on.

things always stayin' consistent

you would think
i would have learned
how to disconnect by now
with all of the backseats
that i’ve been trained in,
with all of the empty lines
i’ve memorized for my own use

Mature secrets? Or secret maturity?

There is nothing
That I would love more
Than to piss you off,
Settle the score.
In fact, it's what
I'd typically do:
Say mean things,
Throw words at you.
But now, I'm proud
because for the time
I've placed someone eles's
Feelings ahead of mine.
Not so fast, don't let
That (also) go to your head,
Don't misinterpret
What you read.
No, you,
You I would rather see cry,
But your friend whose involved-
He could possibly die.

Things Heard, Then Witnessed, and Now:

when I think of you,
I picture your face and want
to hurl my phone
out the window
with Herculean biceps
until it hits you square
in your mouth
and you are forced
to wander the streets
for the rest of your life
looking for your
two (perfect) front teeth
because Santa won’t
bring them to you
because you’re a fucking
douchebag prick-ass jerk.


hey thanks for helping me come to my senses.

Well,

The backburner gets cold after so long.

surprises

Details will reveal themselves
as the story unfolds.
Aren’t you tired of trying
to see past what life allows
you to see?

headache

I awoke this morning
With a skull beat by a thousand drums
The pressures of this material world
And so many expectations
That swell just behind the temples

love you grandma RIP

“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind  it is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for three seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die.”

—	Jack Kerouac

oh, hey

let me know when you decide I matter again

English majors

I wonder if it’s possibly the fate of all writers to spend our whole lives tortured by the fact we think everything we write is shit.  And then we accidentally drink too much (which as a group, we have been known to do)  and write something we actually like but upon sobering up realize it’s overly cynical and even we begin to question whether or not it’s satire.


No wonder we lost all those facebook friends.  If we can’t even decipher the tone of our own voices with all our literary prowess, how can we possibly expect the less literary minded masses to pick up what we’re laying down?  Oops.


Are we all really just hopeless romantics?  And I mean romantics in the literary sense.  Are we all just so morbidly in love with freezing ourselves in time that we almost obsessively sacrifice ourselves to a lifetime of self-loathing vomited all over loose pages very few people in the grand scheme of things will actually read?  Or to a lifetime of living near or below the poverty line?


Or is it simply because we must write.  Because words build up, and build up and it becomes imperative to put them somewhere at risk of exploding all over everyone like an eighth grader’s two-liter Mento bomb splattering all over the parking lot.


It’s probably a little bit of both.  Maybe we are a self-depricating, generally miserable bunch, and maybe we absolutely have to write to save ourselves from ourselves.  Either way, the romantic in all of us proves quite useful when clinging to fragments of hope in the eventuality of it all (aka our words reaching an audience).  Because if none of us clung to the idea that our words can change people, and inspire them to take action in improving themselves and this earth on which we live, then there wouldn't be any literature at all.  And imagine our own childhoods without books to fall in love with.  Now imagine the things you could have fallen in love with instead and recoil at the contemptible idea.


Keep writing. Your words are gifts.