earth

even with the wind and all this oxygen crushing chest muscles

i am more a l i v e than nature herself

dappled leaves a crown to break my brow

majestic throne of damp-set seeping love

knee-high in quicksand

with so many ways to sink.

lye

dear diary,

i can't love you right anymore.

remember the day i crawled crying to your crowded shelf

and from the midst of poetry and prose; plucked a friend.

i wove a secret you and me tale

of death and destruction and bad hair days.

we were inseparable,

till i let him come between

till i began writing my heart on his skin and eyes.

i can't tell you anything anymore

i-- i am sorrier than you know.

don't forgive me;

forget.

divine.

And I'm angrier than ever at these walls and this house.

Angry at nothing but empty space and blank windows.

I want to crawl in bed; let you drip back into my head.

Sliding down limbs and sheets,

through cracks in the floor--

till you're gone.

so okay right.

I cannot explain myself anymore.

I have tried and tried all weekend.

I have cried and screamed and haven't slept. 

By being too divided, too willing to love too many.

I want comfort, I want close.

And I have not.

And should want not.

I feel confined in this expanding heart of mine.

That wants more love, yet gives away too much.

With naught in return wheezing it's way along after the beautiful lively loveliness of life.

tithe me down

i don't know what's wrong with me,

sometimes, i really want to cry,

then i'm catapulted into a sea of white.

it's all very odd and my chest hurts.

it's hard, i won't lie.

harder still when i suddenly realize i don't know what i'm doing.

i'll get through it.

i just cant stand it anymore.

the big chest-aching-crushing lonliness feelings.

I went through today in a daze

a haze, a mess.

i write pseudo-poetry.

in mangled tangled heaps and shreds

broken lines 

without purpose or order

trying trying trying

to be important.

somehow,

to be loved.

!!¡¡

two am is the start of that odd morning time

which runs from then till five,

in which no one can ever sleep.

when you immediately crash at five regardless

blacked out till noon.

sleeping like death.

and there's about a hundred million things on your bed 

when you finally wake up.

mostly books, read in desperation.

pillow cases with their entrails gone somewhere 

inside the comforter and bed sheets.

paper and pens, crumpled and cap-less

the only evidence of their secret late night meetings being

ill-conceived poetry to laugh about in the morning.

crushed and discarded.

yea, i stabbed a man in the heart

we're a little immature.

Confused, but pretty sure we're not

Just trying to explain that feeling

of knowing what to say

but not what you're talking about.

I love talking about love

Being that depressed teenager.

But what can I say?

I'm not wise beyond my years,

I still do stupid things

I still act self important to a fault.

Don't be too hard on yourself.

I never meant to make you feel down.

¡¡¡~