Suppose This

Who are you supposed to call?
When you look outside your window,
flakes of snow float by in mid-May -
you doubt the flowers you planted will see through.

Who are you supposed to ask?
When the nonsensical orders itself,
neat lines of chaos badger your thoughts -
soft rain patters on sunlit pavement.

What are you supposed to do?
If the stars stop to show,
the leaves of trees turn blue with time -
and all you want is to watch Autumn return.

When are you supposed to succeed?
After all your tries,
running by with feet caked in mud -
your cerebellum tingles with failure.

Who are you supposed to love?
When all that matters is survival,
your breath gets caught between lies -
and the room you sleep in is empty.

Who are you supposed to be?
As the world changes itself around us,
shifting its face into contortions -
and then you get left behind.

The You In Me

The drones of this routine life
causes me to revert to thoughts;
of your arms holding me close,
Chocolate eyes that say more
than any words, any lyric
any action.

So I try my hardest now,
to think of what life was before you,
but I cannot recall it at all
It seems like a distant, empty past.
My purpose is in tuned and tied
to you.

I close my eyes to dream
of the future for myself,
but there is nothing there if you’re not.
My hand presses onto the paper,
still all my ideas are of
your influence.

There are these dreams that I keep,
a hope that dwells;
Of a garden, picket fences
and rounded bellies with your hand on top…
Then I feel childish and stupid,
for wanting us forever.

Waiting Is Hard, Fucking Takes So Long

So ironic…
I hate myself because I hurt you,
the only one I really love.
Through mistakes and jumbles
you get caught somewhere in between -
I wish I could take it all back.

I love myself because you taught me
that I deserved to be loved.
I find all that I needed between us,
and now my own stupidity might take that away -
I find serenity, happiness, and peace
then started a war without looking.

I hate you because I sit here
in deep anticipation for our day to come,
Sleeping holding your shirt,
singing to myself pretending its you.
I hate you because I love you so much
that it hurts unbearably when I’ve hurt you.

I love you because you’re Noah Page,
your sweet kisses trail a hot map on my soul
as you awaken parts of me I did not know I had.
All things happen for a reason,
and there was a reason why you sat with me -
why we read the exact same books
And the reason was because fate…
knew that we’d fall in love,
it knew that you were my Ying and I was your Yang.

The waiting to here your voice again,
to know if you still love me now
is the hardest, most painful part.
Isn’t that punishment enough,
if you leave me in the end – isn’t that going too far?
A cruelty I deserve to feel.

Two Randoms

I’ve done too many posts in one day so I’m throwing two short ones together for my last post of the day;

1st: Unnamed
still remaining in this poison
even though you push me
towards the edge.
All of these pages and imaginations will burn
as time falls by we will fall with it.

it’s not as hard as you may think,
to accept the fate of your place in the world.
and I could never stand up to you
in fear of my extermination
but it’s the only thing that will keep me alive.

2nd: What A Fire Says About Us

yellow fickle flame detters,
an abomination of tries
races harder, faster to red -
- like the lurid fire in my veins
All the bruises from here;
the cuts and scraps barely visible.
As time drowns itself a hot blue,
arises from collecting ashes.
It’s a sadness covered by words,
I don’t know anymore whose
memories these are.
The transparent flicker hasn’t come yet,
but my blood does heat it so.

Breaking Point

Your hands can grasp
at fragile wristbones
tired from leaning on the pavement.

They can fight off words
capitalized in thick mud
where they sit waiting to be read.

A shallow breath can end
where a stranger on comes in
with a tide of hope attached.

Your deceit can infect
the cuts on the ground,
an insane gesture bleeding out.

This stick has to break
eventually it all goes too deep
we wonder what happens in the end.

To be lost in the snap
sent to the place where love
works in backward circles.

Where is your point
in this run towards doorknobs
that lead to uncertain questions?

I found mine dusted
beneath the floorboards
where the coke turns green.

To Whom It May Concern

There’s a ring of decay forming on the windowsills of my bedroom; the spots where my head breaks. It’s the place where I pack bowls and wish for a different feeling, where all dreams find their weaknesses. What happened to your heart, I curious myself on that. Just don’t break my head anymore. I find a crisp drought in the closet where I’ve hung my desperation to dry beside all of the dirty syringes whose holes go unnoticed. Attracted to the failure and pain that creeps in through internet cables linked to hot tears on my cheek. There’s a certain search for certainty. Should I just paste the statement To Whom It May Concern at the top of all my empty thoughts of all my empty life? This tarnished spoon is the only thing that feels right in my hand anymore.

(Inspired by The Weakerthans, many of their songs)

Is It Worth It?

Your touch will always burn holes
your words torch the soul,
your eyes dagger the mind.
Because I believe in what you do,
it turns out to be for the worst.

A Short Four-Doored Revolution

sun streams between leaves,
a golden light lands abruptly
The cars below take advantage
of the paved road ahead -
rubber grasping at high speeds.

Four lights that flash like
the hammer and sickle under your bed
our temples blinking low oil
Into our adjusted eyes
That evolved with the bearing

Forest greens stacked on either side,
a wilderness cast but weak.
A new forest constructs itself,
these temples roaring through them
as our convenience holds us hostage.

Stream of Conciousness on The City Bus

@ the 7, 115
what’s the trailer for?

houses that look like
impoverished dried up cottages repeated.
the BBQ’s strewn
out on the porch.

215. Ford. demented tree.

All these Volkswagon’s urge me to get a hippie van.

swings on front yards
- if someone steals them will you
wake up?

trees with 7 roots,
people with three legs?

cowboy hats, leatherboots, curly hair, pink shirt, jean jacket, HICK

KIDS ON HEATERS

houses by the owner beside graveyards by the beaches, make dirty runoffs?

im standing alone
on the edge of this world,
dangling my broken feet downward.
It wouldn’t have been so bad
my mind would have healed itself,
only if I could have said my say
but nobody ever wants to listen,
to anything that’s not drugs or sex.
The music too.

It soothes my soul into a certain calming, but it can’t stop tears or fears. Or the ever hunting pain inside.

I want to bleed, but I can’t anymore…I’m all dried up, where left to cut?

I want to bleed until I can’t see, so that my insides paint your bedroom floor so I can find my revenge. Jack’s Heart’s Revenge.

I’m only in this place, with no more tears to cry,
because now I know I’m a hassle.
You don’t want me around, but you keep me – why?
I thank you for it…

I still don’t understand where I went wrong,
I just wanted to tell somebody who care what happened,
only to find out you see me as a hassle and you don’t really care and you’ll just allow me to runoff with tears in my eyes not giving a shit why they’re there.
I don’t tell you half the things that happen in my life because I know you don’t care…but when shit gets this bad,
I thought you would…
Jesus, I thought you would.

Does it really matter?
It’s not all about you, not at all
I can’t write anymore either.
I have my ideas and I scribble out the story lines and character bios constantly.
But my poetry has flattened itself into me just rambling angrily, depressed about the things inside of the life I don’t hate that much…
it’s ridiculous.

I can only play those songs by others,
the sound may not be perfect but the metal strings are comforting.

“A pill to make you numb, a pill to make you dumb, a pill to make you anybody else. All the drugs in this world won’t save her from herself…”

- Isn’t anybody who knows ever going to wonder how the drug trial went?
- of course not, it has nothing to do with psychedelic drugs or sex. or music.