do you recall

right now, right now i

can't help but

remember

the way

you

move

from room to room

and

the way you

sip your coffee, your tea, your wine

the trembling of your slender hands

cigarette clutched delicately between your cold

cold fingers

i do remember that,

clearly

your hands were always cold

even when i held them in mine

the coldness stayed.

when did this happen?

how did we get so

far

far from that place

it would be nice to visit

maybe

sometime

don't you think?

because right now

right now

i can't help but

remember

green velvet couches

and

my head in your lap

you running your fingers through my hair

i never could stay awake like that

it's hard for me,

remembering things

all the things that happened

but i know that it is important

to try

and some things

well

some things never leave

like

the way your hands trembled

or

the feeling of your icy fingers

laced through mine

and the way you moved

from room to room.

"... all i know is that you're so nice ..."

scent of purple cotton candy transports me back to opium den barn burnt squares of aluminum foil that yellow 1970s kitchen empty pen casings halves of straws purple cotton candy scented smoke loss of feeling DISASSOCIATION now we are numb and this is just the way we get by and we do what we can what we have to and just another quarter tonight (waittheseare60snot80s) so just another little quarter - we'llshareit - tonight maybe and maybe you've done enough now and maybe purple cotton candy smells too sweet and maybe just maybe we're killing ourselves this time so maybe you've done enough and i think you need to stop and you tell me that you can't and i am scared because i love you and i know that you have to stop and i also know that you can't and i am scared because i love you and i don't know how to help you and i want you to get better because i love you and i want to help but i don't know how anymore. i just want you to be okay without this and i am scared because you can't stop and

I LOVE YOU

and please, you have to stop killing yourself because

you are killing me too.

for wesley

Let's play a game

I'll write a poem

in 25 lines or maybe less

and it will be

specific and

straight

to the point.

a hook and a jab

a sucker-punch

right in the gut.

They'll never see it coming.

They won't know what hit 'em.

Right outta left field!

We'll catch 'em off guard.

That's the way to win a war.

typewriter fingertips

typewriter finger-tips

ashen and numb and

when i touch my face they are

cold and i am

writing to you

and you have to know

one thing

only

and that is

or

i mean to say

i love you.

i don't know why i'm writing to you

because i guess i'm supposed to tell you things

things

that i don't think you really want to hear. or if you would even hear me if i said them to you.

they aren't particularly nice things.

what i should have said months ago

i know that you love me

i do know that

and i know that you

have the best of intentions

(probably)

but

really

sometimes (and just sometimes)

i think i might

despise you (a little)

for all the reasons

i've written before

(which you would know if you ever read my poems

which of course you've told me you have

which

of course

i know isn't true)

and i know you haven't

actually read my poems

because if you are even

one half as perceptive as i am sure that you are

you would know that there are poems about

you

and likely, you wouldn't like

what you read

because

then

you would know

just how much you've

hurt me

and you'd somehow

end up making me feel bad

for making you feel bad

for making me feel bad

and

likely

you would make it all about you

which it only partly is

because this is about

me

and my insecurities

and my feelings

and my fears

and my neuroses

because this is about

m e

and i won't let you make me feel bad

for being selfish because

i deserve to be selfish

sometimes

so don't take that

away from me

so i guess

it's good thing

really

that you won't read my poems

i can go on pretending

to think that you

might actually like to know

what's going on in my head

we're probably better off that way

because

i love you

really

i do

and i don't want to hurt your feelings

because i know that

you love me

really

i do know that

i just wish i didn't care so much

because

i want to be selfish

and i can't

because

i love you so much.

in all fairness

you can still hear your fathers voice. i know it's not right for me to feel jealous of you for this, but i do. i can't help but feel jealous. you can hear your fathers voice, when you need to. its not fair.

i will never hear your voice again
and it's not fair
i will never again feel your arms around me
and that's not fair.
i will never again see you smiling
and it's not fair.
you will never get to see me grow up
and that's not fair.
you will never yell at me again because you are angry or disappointed or sad
and this isn't fair.
you will never help me to mend my broken heart
and that's not fair.
you won't walk me down the aisle someday
and it's not fair.

you are gone, forever,
and that isn't fair.

don't wake me up

if i sleep
i think i might
see you
if only
in my dreams
you are next to me
and i know that
i will wake up to find
myself
alone
again

so
i try to stay asleep
as long as i can
to keep you here
with me

our best laid plans

i guess that i don't sleep anymore. or i do, but only when the sun is out.
i guess that means i'm nocturnal, maybe. i don't know.
i guess i haven't seen the sun in three days. maybe four. (excluding dawn)

but i guess that i won't sleep again tonight (today. right now.)
so i guess what i'm doing right now is occupying myself with things that maybe
possibly might matter. but i guess also that it doesn't matter at all
what i distract myself with. occupy. occupy myself with. distraction.
it's the same thing, i guess.

so i guess i'm lighting candles
and putting on a kettle of some tea that is some kind of
morroccan mint and green and white fusion
because i guess i think that maybe this will help me to be calm

and now the kettle is whistling so i know that the water is boiling
and ready so i guess now i can pour myself a cuppa
and sip it slowly so that i don't burn my tongue (but i don't think that would be so bad, really)

and i guess, now, i will just sit here on
the heirloom love-seat
surrounded by little soft candle-lights
sipping on this tea
and i guess, now, i can listen to the new Beach House album
all the way through
in its entirety
because that's what i've really wanted to do all night
but i kept getting distracted.

but now i realize
that
i'm not even listening, really, because i'm writing
instead
and
i just wanted to soak up the words and the rhythm and the melody
but i guess i'm just using this as background noise
because i'm writing (which is good, i guess, because maybe it's been a while)

and now i'm noticing that i haven't even touched my tea
but there is steam rising from the mug, still,
so i know that there is time, yet, to enjoy it, maybe.

i guess that, to do what i wanted to do in the first place
i should stop writing, but sometimes you just can't stop the words
like flash floods or open, gaping wounds from which blood gushes forth
refusing to clot, threatening life with loss of blood

but i guess that's what this writing is, really,
open wounds from which blood gushes forth
open heart from which words gush forth
refusing to clot
refusing to stop

and the words won't stop until there is nothing left inside of me
which is frightening and makes me feel something that i guess must be
sadness
because when the words finally stop that must mean that i am
empty
and when yr empty, you've got nothing left.

having nothing left, i think, is where the sadness sits.

and i'm just thinking that if you are reading this, well, it probably won't
make much sense, because i'm not really sure of what i've already said
because, well,
i try not to look back and
i try to look ahead
because the future, well, the future must be better or
at least better than what is right now
because
right now, well,
right now is not so great.

but that's why i try not to look back
and i try to look ahead
because i guess there's that saying, what is it
i think it's something like
when you've hit rock bottom, then
the only place you can go
is up.
upward and
onward.

so i try not to look back.
and i try to look ahead.
because i think maybe, this time, it really is
the worst that it's been (at least in a long, long while)
so the only way that things can go
is forward.

and now i'm looking around me, because it's darker now,
i noticed, than it was when i began, it must be, because i guess now
a candle or two has burned out completely
and steam is no longer rising from my untouched cup of tea
and the album is almost over
and i haven't seen a thing
and i haven't tasted a thing
and i haven't heard a single word that's been sung.

when all that i wanted to do right now
was to sit here calmly on the heirloom couch
surrounded by warm candle-lights
and sip on my tea
and listen to the new Beach House album in its entirety.
soaking it all in.
taking everything in.

instead of taking anything in, i guess what i've done here
is tear a gaping hole in myself and let this word-blood come pouring out
and i suppose i've no intentions of stopping the bleeding
or mending the wound
because, well
i guess that maybe those things are out of our control
and
i should just let these things happen
on their own.

i think that i will light another candle.
i think i will re-heat my cup of tea.
i think that i will stop writing now and
start again, from the beginning,
so that i may

listen.

please don't

this is the worst thing that can be done to a person.
in my opinion.

found wanting

i'm not sure what to say here.
nothing that i haven't said before.
nothing that we don't already know.

i want a lot of things.
i want my hair to always look good. i want to get out of this town. i want a typewriter. i want to find my niche. i want to write like my heart is on fire. i want wishes to come true. i want to breathe. i want to not be afraid anymore.
i want to take the Great American road-trip
(you & me & an old station wagon. mix-tapes &
polaroids & too many cigarettes
& feet out the window with the radio loud.
you & me & miles to go)
i want to believe you.
i want to trust you.
i want to let this go
so that i can let this in.
i want to believe in love
again.

snapped shot

i'm looking at each picture
and trying to remember
the story
the moment
the feeling
because these were moments
seemingly worth capturing
worth remembering forever
worth feeling

so i'm trying to remember
because
forgetting is awful
especially
forgetting you

tired and trying

and i'm sitting here
listening to one sad concerto for cello
after another
and i'm looking through all these
old family photographs
and polaroids
of us

and i really wish that i could smoke in my room
surrounded by all this
black satin
and memorabilia
from previous life gone by

and i'm feeling nostalgic
i guess
or at least maybe i'm trying to feel that way.
trying to feel anything
besides this

this constant fear & anxiety
and i think
i must be
numb
or something
because i want
so badly
to feel
anything.
everything.
i'm just trying to feel.

how am i supposed to do this

and i'm over-dramatic.
and i don't care.

i don't know how to tell you
i don't know how to tell you
that
you are hurting me
i don't know how to tell you
that
you are breaking my heart.

not a poem at all

stumbled upon my live-journals from high-school / beginning of freshman year at apu. total throwback. feeling odd. merrr.

omission

really i should just
tell you
what it is
that's been bothering me
be
ya know
honest
or whatever
but
i feel like
you'll get mad
or
think that i'm being silly
or
overly dramatic

and
it's not my place
i guess
because
it's none of my business
really

but we're all connected
and we're all
just
trying to get by
and
we do what we can

but
whatever it is
that you've been doing
to get by
that's what's been bothering me
so so much

and i hate lying to you
because
omitting a truth
is basically the same thing
as
a lie.

and if i'm being honest here
well
you're really hurting my feelings
and i don't think you have a clue.

libra rising

grey sky. cigarette burns. blurred window reflections
of
palm trees
and
something else
quintessentially Californian

we talked about
Moon signs
until the Sun awoke
from her slumber
Moon signs
and
polarity
the things that make us
who we are
we talked about the club
that nobody wants to join
but of which we are veteran members
and
four fingers left in the bottle
lining up our mostly smoked
cigarette ends
according to size

shivering amongst the palm trees
and something else
quintessentially Californian

and we talked.

trying

i'm trying to write. i'm trying to write. i'm trying to write.

remember when i wrote
about things like
lava and
skeletons
and
hearts being on fire

remember when i wrote
about things like
clouds and
star-shines
and
love

i'm trying to remember.
i'm trying to write.
and it's just not happening
like i want it to.

wesley told me i should just
lie
and no one would know
the difference
but i would know
and i think
maybe
lying is just
too easy
and it feels like
i'm cheating

so

i have to tell the truth

but

i'm not sure
if i even know what that is
anymore

a thought

"between the anger
and the thousand hollow words
we'll never share
i wonder
if i am
your greatest failure
or you
mine"

something i stumbled upon

sun rise

i'm awake. the vicodin itch is wearing off, or
perhaps
i have become numb.

the sky is getting
lighter and
i guess
the sun is rising
to my east
somewhere
because my horizon is this
lovely warm color of
a freshly plucked peach and
ever so slowly this
is becoming the sky
that i can see
and it is a happy shade of
nectarine
fading into
lavender
fading into the
blue
sky of what today
might become.

this is a calm and lucid
presence of being that
i can't remember having felt for
quite some time now.

i feel
serene and
calm and
everything i perceive to be
ethereal and
glowing
with the promise of
better days.

good things.
beautiful things.

being present in the moment at present
nothing is more important or beautiful than
this
is
right now.

good morning,
blue-bird.
good morning
to this
crisp bright air that is filling my lungs
with
oxygen and
hope
and promises of better days.
good morning.