I See More Dark Colors Than Bright Ones - 06/29/10

Talking to myself
Because no one else
Has any more answers
Than I
And no one else is
Anywhere near
So I guess
It’s just me
And my head
Screaming
Something fierce
And if you can hear it
You’re too close
To me
To me
It seems
That all the sunshine
And the clouds
Are all the same colors,
All the flowers
And the garbage
Are all the same shade
Of gray
Or black
Or bloody red
And those same colors
Just won’t seem
To go away

So this is all your fault
All my fault
Whatever it is
That I can’t find
This head’s
On wrong
Been this way
For too long
Why’d you go
And make this world
This way?
Of all the colors
Why so many shades of gray?

Music Made the World - 06/29/10

Darkness, darkness.
Darkness of the infant universe,
not a clue
how to walk,
how to talk,
how to grow,
freshly clumped together
by the dance of little

universe bits

colliding together with such a
big bang
that the universe came
into being within
beats
of the dancing

universe bits.

From then on,
it was music,
it was magic,
it was science,
it was tragic the way the space
swallows all sound
in the vastness,
not enough

universe bits

for the beats
to dance off of
and make their sweet music.
Until a little spark of drums,
and blow of a bright yellow horn,
the sun,
and scattered all around at their feet
were all those little

universe bits,

and they clumped together,
by the pull of that horn,
those perfect notes
that lit the sky,
and so formed a ball,
rocky like the high notes that
the comets sang
as they zipped around the horn,
but rocky as it was,
it was,
and it continued to be,
a little ball of blue like jazz
and green like the violins’ low, mellow notes,
it was
and it continued to be,
a little ball of rock,
brown as the tambourine’s
tap
tap
tap!
A little ball of clouds,
white like the melancholy moan
of the piano.
So it was
and continued to be.

Like the World in its Way - 06/27/10

There’s this raspberry bush in my backyard
like the world
in the way that its branches;
all covered in deadly thorns,
stained with blood
and berry juice;
reach out into the evening light
with a will so strong
that those branches begin
to defy gravity,
growing straight up,
wrapping those thorns
around anything in its way,
desperate for the sky,
for the stars,
for whatever they think
lays beyond,
because their roots
have dug into everything,
invasively,
and ruined
their own chance of surviving
with the other plants,
and still they reach on,
not seeing that it’s killing them,
every last one.

There’s this raspberry bush in my backyard
 like the world
in the way that the black raspberries,
the ones hardened
and toughened
and sweetened
by the sun to be the color
of the sky at midnight,
all purple and black,
stick on the ends of the branches,
basking in the evening sun light,
taking it all in.
They are
harsh,
and hard,
business like in their way,
getting what they need,
whatever they need.
They shroud the other berries,
the red raspberries,
with the mushy,
heart-like bodies,
that crush and smash
as you try to pluck them.
Those red raspberries,
who cower under the thick,
raspberry bush leaves,
so much sweeter tasting
than the purple one,
but so much
trickier
to get to,
so much more
challenging
to reach
a slender hand
through the delicate thorns,
to be stabbed and pricked,
and to stain those thorns
with the sticky
red liquid
under the thin skin
of the slender hands.

The Crow and the Cherry Blossom - 06/24/10

1

Scavenge, small black bird
Pink lips, green leaves, must be spring
Dark and bright clash, rough


2

Pink pedals drift
Ever so gently
Through the cool air
From the twisting
Tree of pink and green
It must be spring.

A large, black crow
Picks his way
Through lichen.
He is hungry,
Like the wind
That tears up this place
Searching, searching, searching
But never finding
What it seeks
Though it rips
Around ever corner
In cold pursuit.


3

Doesn’t have to mean
A thing
Can just be
What is
A representation
No metaphor,
Not this time

I Left A Lot Of Messages - 06/20/10

Rain drops.
Rain drops on
The Rose City streets
In June,
In what should be
Summer
My summer,
The summer
That was finally
Going to be
Good.

And it is,
The people
And the laughter
And the normal
Teenagers.
Parties,
Just like anyone else would.
But
It’s not quite there.

I should’ve called
Earlier
So that I could’ve talked to you.
Something’s different.
You’re not here.
And I can feel it.
Pit of my stomach
Kind of
“Feel it.”

The faded sharpie
On my arm
With a fish
After the word
“LOVE”’
And the sand
And the sea
And the little boat
Reminds me of you;
You looked at it,
And told me you loved me,
Too.
And I smile,
And cry a bit.

Because
You
Are
So
Far
Away.

I Wonder if I'll See the Doctor - 06/20/10

When you’re sick,
when you’re not feeling well,
when you’re achy
and in pain,
and sick,
you don’t hid it.
You don’t
deny it.
You tell someone.
Because then
you can get help,
you can get a hand,
and you can relax
and get better.
There’s nothing to lose,
and everything
to gain
from reaching a hand,
not matter how
frail and pale
it may be,
out and grasping
hold of another’s
to help
steady yourself
back into the
perfect health
that you should be in.

Unless,
perhaps,
your “sick”
isn’t really a sick
like a normal sick.
No fever,
no cough,
nothing like that.

And then
there is
something to lose.

I’ve got something to lose.

You see,
whenever their friends ask,
they always smile.

They smile
and they say,
“Our daughter.”
They talk about me
like they know me.
And they should,
but they don’t.
They talk about how
amazing I am,
how perfect,
how wonderful.
They tell their friends
about how smart
and sweet
I am,
and how I’m going
to do all these great things
when I get older.
They think that I’m
so smart.
That I’m so happy
and healthy.
They think that
I know what I’m doing
and where I’m going.

They think I’m hope.

After all the dark places
we’ve been,
they look at me
and see normality,
or at least sanity,
and they get hope
that after all the
trauma
and the stress
and the broken things
and the knives
that I am alright,
that I’m not broken,
that I still have a chance.

And they don’t see
all the things
that I see.
I don’t let them.
And now,
it’s too late.
You can’t turn someone’s world
upside down
just because your world’s
been turned
upside down
and backwards
a million times.
It isn’t fair
to always be
fighting so hard
that no one sees
and then
one day just

break down

into a million
little
bloody
pieces
and expect anyone
to know what to do.
How can you draw them in,
so unexpectedly?
It’s not fair.

Neither is being alone,
but that’s just to one,
and the other option
is to many,
so my pain
is more fair
than everyone else’s.
So that’s how it should be.
How it will be.