Without My Louis

I thought I would get happier as the days passed,
then how come tears come harder now?
We talk all through the night, more than before,
it makes me delirious and smile so much.
What are you being now is all I ever wanted from you,
that and your honest love.
Everything I asked for has been completed naturally.

Remember when you said if you don’t do it naturally you won’t do it at all?
It seems natural now and fuck it makes me so happy.
Now that you’re not with me and I can’t be in love with you-
what’s the point of all these things making me feel good?
People keep telling me just friends is OK,
I’m dying inside here escaping through little breaths.
I have distractions and other people,
but they are not even fucking close to you,
who you are and what you fucking represent.

Nobody has made me feel better than you,
meeting you was the high point of my life thus far -
that means the fall from you is that much worse.
You say you worry about me now,
then why do you have to force us apart forever?
Time is what we need,
but “as time goes by
you say it’s been fun,
but it’s better this way…
it’s you that I need
and I’m sure it’s always been”.
I can’t stop listening to that song knowing it’s true.

Getting over you is the only thing I can see as impossible,
we just need our time apart to realize how much we love each other,
right?
We need time to grow into ourselves before growing together,
right?
You are the most important person to me and soul and I am to you,
right?
Right?
I’m falling between lines of sadness and smoke can’t even save me now,
only your words can even if they’re not what I want to hear.
Your voice is like the angel that is supposed to guard me,

pick up your phone.

An Ode to The Stoned Insomniacs

and there is a smoke spilling out of the window;
The late night calls its screech downward
upon us kids who quarrel with the time.
When we are stuck in this room of haziness
we find out what it is to truly be alive.

To ponder the feelings that erode in the back
of our confused and shattered mind,
A drone of existentialism pleads at our ears
Just so that we can possibly reesemble lies -
That we once let fall from our lips of innocence.
If we enjoy these nights so much,
then why do we find it necessary to leave them?

So I lace my fingers between your dreads,
the way they feel this late is nearly comforting.
Your words drift like our lives in this room -
we feel locked in together but don’t complain too much.
Tap into the deafening silence of your mind,
there you will find the will to survive,
and the knowledge which will keep you going
Onto the next night where smoke rises once again.

Interdimensional Feelings

Hung up on every word,
a laughter escaping trembling lips -
That wish to be wrapped around yours.
and so I don’t write love poetry,
just lines that mesh together.
If I cannot define love itself
how am I to write of its context?

I never really expected this,
but at least I was anticipating
something along these lines.
A feeling grasps me like a pull,
we are drawn like magnets
why?
Metaphysically connected in ways,
I could not start to explain.

I love being in your presences
even if I haven’t said of it yet,
everything is different this time.
It’s the lucid dreams that pass by,
the drifting sense of need of you,
That I know we should be touching -
feeling hot breath on necks and trail
thoughts onto blank papers without question.

I never thought I’d be thinking along these lines
(or saying this in context to you)
but I need to feel you so bad,
at least once before I go.

Library of Irony

and the walls are plastered with posters;
Literary Gods are praised through lamenated sheets of colours-
do you think they really had this in mind?
Isn’t this all just publicity?

It’s really quite the Catch 22;
written for reasons to avoid the unnatural media,
yet destined to become its largest part.
We’re like the Invisible Man (as Ellison would say),
cooped up for One Hundred Years of Solitude
…maybe I dislike because Mrs Dalloway has become too common.

We have some Catch(es) from Salinger and worlds from mescalin fiends,
greatness dawns down from American gangsters in the 20s – Daisy was a floozy.

As Things Fall Apart, I sit and listen to the Mockingbird tweet,
and than I look across them parallel and see;
Twilight.

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Tomorrow, We Will Conquer

Everything the day doesn’t care about
falls into your lap with grace
As you sift through old papers,
stumbling gray eyes across them.
You read through illegible lines
as your fear slowly begins to sink -
Deeper into bloodied skin.
You have been quivering always,
afraid of what you knew was true.

Maybe you won’t notice,
that everyone’s problems fall,
Into your head at night,
keeping a constant pressure on your thoughts.
The sun sets with your hope,
your feet are too tired now
And everything feels better and looks
different through bloodshot eyes.
Another day crumbles away,
and you watch the tick-tock clock
Make this day a yester-one.

Sheet Metal Sun

The television circuits laid out like frozen meat;
a blood that oozed over the nations.
As summer comes only to pass again,
where will we find ourselves this year?
Beneath the blossoming trees,
sunlight spilling across the broken leaves
as warm rain scatters downward to cleanse?
Will we find ourselves dancing
with the cats that prowl and their chocolate hairs,
will we find ourselves seizing this certain warmth?
Or will we be extorting our minds with produce,
like cuts that ease deep into our organs?
This Plastic-Fantastic summer will come.
As the factories burst up in smoke
their workers working overtime,
we will consume their products
(like a raging river barreling forwards).
We put our money on the table-
even in a bruised economy,
and we will run around like insects
Flaunting our bar codes like no other species.
A factory constructed summer runs wild,
with no conception of the impending doom
of eventually turning into roadkill.

Busy Bee

When the tile crease become too crowded;
Crums of tallying out your tries
Find their way itched into your soles,
grease laps the tongue of your feet -
Just to remind you of where you are.

When insignificant beeps drown your drums;
Colour coded squares gleam at you
Through a screen not so unique,
Did you ever stop to think about it -
the words and numbers temporarily flashing?

Wrong Hypotheses

and you think it’s depression,
That I hate myself
or maybe I am not satisfied -
Do you question yourself?
Perhaps the past has its toll on me.

and you think it’s us,
That it’s not quite working out
or maybe I don’t trust you -
Do you wonder if I truly love you?
Perhaps I hate what we have.

and you think it’s jealousy,
That I want to be different
or maybe just some parts -
Do you think I want to be somebody else?
Perhaps I would change if I could.

and you never think,
That it’s just natural
or maybe meant to happen -
Do you realize when I see her…
Perhaps I wonder if you truthfully
fine her more beautiful than me?

Reflective

I stand here separated
a mirror reflecting dutifully
Sharing its cruel image.
It shows what I’m not used to;
these strange appendages,
paper white skin
polluted purple scars.
Freckles and blemishes map
their way around my body.

I do not find myself ugly,
but when I look at myself
For some reason I can’t bear it -
and tears seem to flood my eyes.

Cursed with the body of a 12 year-old,
a mind too sharp to care about it,
but emotions too true to ignore it.