Untitled

The screech echoes against
the trees and the green grass,
resounding deep into their
soft fleshes.
Metal stands for centuries later.
And the laughter carries
through the air in definite waves.
Recognized and believed,
but never seen.
It marks the moment
of uncharted bliss.
A glimpse and mere second
wrapped up into the very voice
of who exists.
There is a reason that satellites
were launched into space
with echoes of laughter, hatred
and all these intangible emotions;
we are lonely here.
And any world we have tried to
create, feels distinctly
empty and isolated.
And we have no answers to
whether or not we are all
simply dreaming or
if any of this is worth  it at all.
And yet this concoction of a significant
life, marches on with the
limits of time.
And most of us forget what it was
like, once upon a time,
to really know what it meant
to be alive.

Nothing changes

Mind thought- you were destined to leave,

And all your life is spent waiting for 

every breathing thing around you to disappear.

Nothing is permanent,

Everything has this starch and stiff feeling,

And it disintegrates

the moment it feels touch.

Maybe there is some wicked freedom 

in this expectation to fail

because powder can be my future

and you can lick it off your cherry lips.    

How Little we Know

How little do we know
about the times we pass through
our friends mind.
The left pieces of our souls,
drift within each other.
Coming to the surface is a blessing
and gaining recognition is a miracle.
And we never know how much surface
we breach
because mum is the word.
How little do we know
how deeply we are loved
and cared for.
If only every thought was counted
and cloaked you
in the safety of knowledge.
The warm embrace of thoughts.

Dry

As the homeless man digs through the garbage,
a shiny red beacon of industrial success
breathes next to him.
It's chrome legs shake with power
and currency flows from it's lungs.
And every morning I see the same man
seeking something to eat
in what others would refuse
next to the promise of progress.

And the day you left again
I never mentioned how dry I became.
My skin cracked and mouth wouldn't open,
blood stopped pumping.
Suddenly it hurt to believe in anything.
And anything called a soul
just couldn't survive.

We wait for spring like the second coming of Jesus,
we wait for the rains to bring back
what was once called a worthy life.
How simple water can seem
until it is gone.

Coherent Words

I have constructed a true sentence in a long time. And I haven't believed in any truth for even longer. And I am frustrated beyond any words I can speak because I don't have a God, I am half-way across the world, they refuse to see my point of view, and I am your punching bag all the time. And I am trying so hard to be a stronger person than I was before. And I am trying to smile and love like I have before, but its so hard when you no longer feel like you have a hand to hold or a place to stand. And I never get anything done, and I never go anywhere, and my mind was never open, and I never really learned anything. Someone better explain all of this to me soon or I fear I will be angry and lost all the time.

God shouldn't be so hard to swallow

What was believed ten years ago,
in the eyes of a child,
looking for a home and something to believe in;
cannot transcend what changes when
time passes and experiences are learned.
And maybe I am just lost,
but I've been half-way across around the world;
what can you say about that?
And maybe I am just one in the
hordes of the godless masses,
but I cannot say that the changes in my heart
are wrong at all.
Because I do not think truth is so starkly defined,
and I certainly do not think God is black or white either.

Djuna Barnes

This is the box you placed me in...

Work

I have always wondered what it would take
to break that ice-cold countenance you hold,
and how I could reach somewhere
deep within your passions
to make you see that I want us to be beyond this world.
And maybe if you just gave me a chance
that would make all the difference
to our dreams and our hardest desires.
And I remember thinking of you as so strange
your first day in Spanish class.
Greasy hair strangled your face as you tried
to stand strong against the fierce beast
that was being the new kid in high school.
I remember saying hello out of pity.
I was the too kind Christian girl,
who actually hated herself more than any one believed.
Fat and out of place, trying to figure out the world.
We talked of bands and California.
And now, I am half-way around the world
and hope still flickers on and off for you.
And I see this longing deep within you
to be something greater than just another
Suburban mutt who fell in love with the idea of literature, music and perfection.
And I wonder if you ever saw something in me.
I just want to make it work.
I want to make something out of our nothing.

Carvings in the Snow

There is a something strangely and methodically intoxicating
when I carve paths in the snow.
I let my feet carry me places
and the crunch of freshness
comforts me in knowing that I have been
the only one in the world to touch those snowflakes.
And I want so badly to make
something out of nothing,
to have some other purpose other than carving paths in the snow.
I think that there is some other
things that I could be doing with my life.
But I am not sure yet.
Feet, help me carve patterns in the snow.
Because this is all I know right now.

Light

It's ok to not be able to love everyone,
because we as people are not big enough,
nor humble enough.
No place is home now,
and I carve my place
out of a stone mountain.
It may not be suitable for you,
but for me it's all I got.
And I ask for something sweet,
to keep my energy up.
But you only cover me in salt.
and water is a dreamland.
Where will I go to find rest?
Where will I got to find a friend?
Familiar faces are millions of miles
behind me and I forgot to retrace my steps
so long ago.
And the world's shaky, sticky breath
makes my skin crawl.
Some people decide to never touch it,
but I have found myself deep inside of it;
covered in its stinking goo and puss.
You have no idea what it means to me
when I find a place to rest.
You have no idea what it feels like to be home.
And this idea of rightness surrounds me like
a coffin and I can sleep finally at peace.
I was afraid of this once,
and my heart beat red with the freshness of youth.
But now I feel like I carry a stone.

New Season

When I write a poem about you, you know it's concrete.
And I haven't written a poem in so long,
not until you came around at least.
There a true loathing in me
because now its become a waiting game.
Time has always slipped away from me
and I don't understand why.
And I knew I should have seen this coming,
you would be like all the rest.
But a broken and hurt heart means pebbles to you,
and pebbles belong in the dirt.
And everything is new and scary now
and the cold bites my fingers to stubs.
All I want you to do is keep me warm at night
especially when I stare in the face of a stranger all day.
Something familiar and fresh...
is that too much to ask for?
But instead I go crazy waiting for some air from you.
And I rack my brain with ways to make
my life better.
But right now I just feel tormented
because I decided to let you in.

Light Comes

For my Brother...you are inspiring and so very strong.

Light comes in lonely places,
when the dawn wakes the slumbering soul.
And your fingers fracture the thawing heart
as they clutch each other for warmth.
The look on your face when the first rays of sun
break the darkness, it always makes me inhale my lungs.
It's so quiet.
But a smile comes when the dawn breaks
because for a moment you feared that it never would.
And you would have to lay there,
on your back for the rest of your life.
Wrapped in the blankets like a coffin.
But that glow streaking across the ceiling
lets the blood return to your cheeks.
And the sleeping dead leaves your body
and you are shaken with life to your core.
You made it another night,
that means you made it another day,
and that means you've made it further than ever before.
And the strength inside you does not amount
to any weight you could lift.
It is the strength to rise when all else would have fallen.
So light does really come in the morning,
and darkness shatters when I see that smile on your face.

Here's a song for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8b_hngUHB8&ob=av2e

Continue to be strong my brother. Love you.

Let the Jazz carry me

There are many times when
I wish the jazz would just carry me away.
Let the music notes snuggle against my arms
and gently
       t
    f
  i
l
me off the ground.
I want to feel lighter than a kite,
than a bird flying alone at midnight.
I want to let the beat do the thinking for me,
the bass line be my blood line,
and melody will hold me.
Love is something I hold dear
and life goes on
when you start playing our song again.
And though the jazz notes groove me
and shake me to the core,
it never seems to be enough to make me fly.

Of course

He would call you,
of course he would.
I would call you even,
who wouldn't?
But an icy coldness
fills me and fights with
the fiery jealousy breathing in an out of me.
Of course he would call you.
And the sitcom perfect situation occurs:
He likes you,
you like another guy,
and that guy could care less.
And I'm the cooky friend there just to make the laughs.
Falling to the ground when I've had too much to drink,
tags still unknowingly attached to my clothes,
the "Laugh" sign lights up when I am around.
But I don't get an arm wrapped around me on a cold walk home.

Sad Poetry

I think you can see straight through me
when I start writing sad poetry.
It manifests and consumes
and my heart becomes an open book.
You can flip through the pages,
see all the tragedy
scoff at the melodrama
and groan and the melancholy metaphors.
And then you can toss that book aside
on your bed side table
and sleep with sweet dreams.
But that sad poetry
and that inspiration for those words
boils within me
and leaves tiny gashes in my skin.
Because for me that poetry is not simply
a list of pretty words.
It's a fabricated figure
of my hopeless heart
of my shattered confidence
of my lonely existence.
And I feel ridiculous
because I'm not usually one to complain
when all around me are gifts of
laughter, friendship, joy, beauty.
I see it and regret the instant that I spent precious time
writing a sad poem and let the dark overtake me.
Stupid sad poetry,
I write you too much.

Reality Sets in.

Does your heart panic knowing that I am going very far from you?
Does it beat faster and faster as the miles grow between us?
Does it feel a little lonelier as it sinks in that it may be a long time before you see me again?

But I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do next...
The idea if you seems like a hill too steep for me to climb,
an unimaginable fantasy.
because you have the whole world spread out beneath your feet
and I could be just another puddle you stomp over as you walk across the street.
But I can't sleep at night because your eyes are the last eyes I see pierce the fogginess.
And I can see myself doing this over and over again for you.
Driving to Estonia, just to kiss your face, have lunch with your family on a lazy Sunday afternoon and laugh about your odd fondness for country music.
And maybe am I just so desperate that any person with kindness in their heart
and a nice ass
looks like a walking target,
with wedding bands and church bells stapled to them like a hazy fever.
I know you don't want that kind of commitment when you signed our friendship contract,
so that's why I don't know what to do now.
Because suddenly I've started writing sappy
love poetry with you in mind and
I have these silly fantasies of you and I together,
and I wish them into reality with all my heart and soul while I drift into dreams populated with your face.
You are everywhere in my mind.
And once again I'm doing nothing important while I wait for a dream to come true.

But reality sinks in the morning I wake,
and I realize the odds of you feeling the same way are about one in a million
and I just  feel like a fool the rest of the day.

Concrete

If all my love
could be captured in a mason jar
and displayed on a windowsill,
you would realize that it's
glowing and pulsing
fading in and out.
Like a heartbeat.

It's not that I claimed you as mine,
it's that I wish I had the guts to.
A whisper no one else could say,
a dream no one else could think,
a song that no one else knows.
Someone that only I could have.

And I just wait here day after day,
writing poems I pretend to be deep,
when all they scream is that
I just wish someone would claim me like that too.

Maybe it would be like hot breath
pushing on the back of your neck,
or it could be the greatest hug
you've ever felt wrap around you.

You are so cool,
full of something I just can't get,
and good at whatever you do.
I wish I knew what it meant to be something.
And every time you win a battle,
it's like glass in my heart.
Especially because I feel like vapor
and you are like concrete.
I just can't break you,
but you can stop me at everything.

I'm not creative,
I only write poems to try to be like another
person who is solid,
I only play music to be like another wall,
I only cook fancy food to be like another,
concrete.

And everyday I feel like my eyes
are being opened,
and even if that's supposed to be
a good thing it's still numbing to realize
you've been blind all this time,
And like a slap on the face
you see reality in it's blinding glory.
Instantly smaller,
the light overwhelms you.
I hate finding out I was wrong.
When you only want to be right
the first time.
Starting over is just another mile back
mile marker 62.

So there you go,
finally an explicit line never written before:

I want you to be mine.

And I want you to stop talking to him.

And I want you to be cooler than you are.

The case

She may be invisible to your eyes
but to mine, I see her
and how she loathes her body like a curse
and prays every night to shed all
that fat that prevents her from wearing
a pair of skinny jeans.

Moon scar

I will carry with me always,
that crescent shaped cut on my foot
and I will remember what it felt like
to feel lighter than dust
and float through the air.
When it turns into a scar
I will kiss it goodnight
like a scene from a bad movie.
And I will see your face when I close my eyes,
and my heart will shake
and my skin will prickle
as I feel a finger move up and down my spine.
And I can't help myself when I let a smile slip out
or a laugh burst from my rusty lungs
when you strut across my mind
like you own the joint.
Every thought of you is a souvenir
I package up and ship home to
be there
when I get back from a long day.

Today

Today I've done the most liberating thing I have ever done,
I called you,
Heard your voice,
You sounded tired and frustrated,
Just like me.
But I called you anyway and told you,
That I don't think we should talk anymore.

The silence that grew from this created a chasm,
larger than the Grand Canyon.
What took centuries to create, we did it
in a matter of seconds.

Then you acted like the phone was breaking up
and disappeared.
I could have called you back,
and you could have called me back.
But I think we both made a decision
and seared it to our hearts to remember this by.

The last thing I will ever hear from you is
a plea.
And I swear to God,
that will always be the last thing.