Water in My Veins - 07/29/10

tell me
what you think
of the ships
on the sea
tell me
what you see
in the water
blue and green
nothing in between
separate
the fish
from the flesh

you ask
what color is the rain
and i answer
the same as the water
in my veins

screeching
beating
car crash
siren
last laugh
dying
sound the alarm
take my arm
hold me close
as the world
like frayed thread
unravels
and we're all dead

you ask me
what color is pain
i answer
the same as the water
in my veins

Drifting - 07/29/10

12:
By morning -
Not the sun-and-awake morning,
But the past-midnight morning -
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.
Turn down the tv,
So I can sleep.
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.
Shut down the computer,
The blinking LED heartbeat
Keeping me up.
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.

Too hot.
Too sticky.
Open a window?

Sirens,
Horn honks,
Car speakers thumping
Pumping
Bumping
In the not-so-dead of night.


1:
Blink, blink.
Toss, turn,
Sit up,
Shake my head as if
It will help
Clear all the thoughts out,
Dump them out
And onto the messy floor.
Slamming door across the hall,
Someone’s up for a snack.

2:
Back, side, stomach, other side.
Check the clock,
Another hour passed,
Insomnia?
I hope not.

3:
Burning
Turning
Churning
Nearly 16 years
Of never learning
How to fall asleep?

That’s just not right.

Breathe.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Don’t think.

But in order not to think,
One must think
About not thinking,

Also just not right.


4:
Silence.
This is the silent part of night.
But it isn’t night.
And the clock’s bright lights
Say another hour’s passed
With no shut eye.

5:
Could be cleaning,
Could be reading,
Could be doing anything except,
Apparently,
Sleeping.
Skydiving?
Sure.
Learning to drive?
Why not.
Resting, relaxing, reviving?

No.

6:
Screw you,
Mr. Sunshine,
So divine,
Just not right now.

Drift off finally,
Only to be awaken,
In two hours.

Pretty Neon Blue - 07/23/10

My wrists.
The backs of my hands.
The tops of my feet.

Upon those three,
in beautiful, elegant blue,
my blood runs clearly
as if it were out of my body.
It seems silly at times
to keep it in me.
The way these veins

pop

and stand out
like they were made
to be broken,
like it’s wrong
for that blood
to stay inside.
Such a silly thing.

In the insanity
that 2:22 in the morning brings,
I chuckle,
actually chuckle,
at the notion,
at the bloody notion.
It sounds fun.
I clench my fist,
make the veins pop more
and feel the nausea
of the destruction
hit my stomach like a brick,
relax my hand.

And smile.
Actually smile.

Smile at the thought,
the terrible thought,
of all the blood
dripping all over
my white tank top,
my black sheets,
the tan carpet,
the marble sink top,
everywhere,
a trail more clear
than bread crumbs,
the most potent
you’ll ever find.
Vibrant,
unnaturally bright.
And so silly.

Release Me - 07/23/10

The pen lifts from the page;
a bit of a smudge,
a loose dash,
a mess of over emotional penmanship;
with an air of finality.
Words without letters,
scrawled too fast to bother.
Blood dripping from the thin papers,
made more and more real
with each new word.
Fill that page,
and the next begins,
already a mess,
drops seeping from the previous one.
The urges,
the thoughts,
the feelings,
they all remain
even after the last word,
but subdued,
shortened,
cut
by the blatant
and obvious expression
and acceptance
of everything they are.
No shame in the hatred.
No terror in the blood.
And less guilt
in the insanity.
The veins on the wrist
of the body
of the hand
that wrote those words
still pop
flashing
like neon blue signs
screaming for attention,
but an effort to ignore them
is more easily made.
The thoughts will return,
of course,
and maybe one day
they’ll remain,
even after the last painful word.

Promises and Criminals - 07/23/10

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

I lay in the darkness
of night
but also of something more,
something within the head
that repeats those words
those terrible words,
to itself,
saying, over and over,

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

In the darkness,
covered but not protected,
shrouded but not hid,
the flesh on my legs,
on my wrists,
the paper that holds
my blood
in my veins

SCREAMS

to be ripped
to be cut
        cut
        cut
with quick and emotional
slashes to be torn
to be disgraced.
They beg for promises
to be forsaken.
They pled
for a need
we both have,
for something
to mean something,
for a feeling
other than the darkness.
Happiness is out of reach,
except for in lies,
which I take in public,
but not in the private
of my demented head.
Alone,
the thoughts persist,
the screams echo
in the silence
and the vacuum
that a mind creates
as it collapses in upon itself,
like a black hole,
consumed by its own hatred,
hatred for nothing more
and nothing less
than itself.
It is in the darkness
that the words persist
and hiss
in the shadows,
tearing me from rest,
but not yet slumber
to write words that hurt
far more than any cut,
to write them
and make them real,
to hurt myself more
than any blade could.

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

Words I wrote originally.
Words meant for me
and only me.
Words to kill myself,
to hold the cold gun
to my temple
and to shoot.

Word that spill out
rushed,
scribbled,
heard to read,
in the hurry
to finish
and free myself
of writing words
that kill myself.
But it was I
that did
enslave myself
to write
such words
that kill.

And to this effect,
in this extent,
every promise not to
physically hurt myself
is kept completely.

But I am hurt.

This pen I hold
and move across paper,
quickly and irritably,
hurts,
though it doesn’t stab
nor cut
nor slash,
merely dash
across the page
writing words
whose meaning seeps
into my blood
with the finality
of my fate,
of my destiny
that I look forward
to even as I wish
I didn’t.
The words:

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

push me along
not resting,
no motivation to resist,
as my head swims gaily with
sick images
of my own bleeding body
sprawled artistically
in agony,
a pencil jutting from my
ruptured trachea.

No fear.
No worry.
No contempt.
Nothing to stop the thoughts
except guilt
that someone disapproves,
is possibly hurt
because he loves,
and what a fool for loving me
he must  be.
But the guilt
does not vanquish the bloody image,
does not silence the flesh’s scream,
does not sooth my wrists’ itch.

It encourages it,
fueling the self-destructive flames
with more self hate.
It screams back

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”



But don’t worry.
Not a soul worry.
I wouldn’t dare
actually make myself bleed.
I’m bound by a promise
that turns every thought
into guilt,
into those lines,
and makes the thinker,
makes me,
a criminal,
a horror,
a monster,
a bitch.

I am a bitch.

And what a selfish one too.
Needing contact
to keep my own life,
needing someone else’s
approval
to like myself.
What a dirty whore.
What a freak.
How weak.

I am better off dead.

Jealous of the Trees - 07/15/10

Jealous;
green with envy,
red with rage,
black with heartbreak,
blue with sorrow,
white with pain,
rosy with embarrassment,
and purple with stress;

what a rainbow I am:

making something bright
from the
drear
of the

pitter patter pitter patter slip and splatter

of the rain
on the cold cement.
But it’s summer,
so there’s little rain,
so I suppose
I’m just the mist
from the garden hose
as it brings to life
the shriveled and dying plants,
brown and gray
from the sun.
Dead and useless.
No need for them,
no help for them,
no want for them,


yet jealous of them?


Yes,
jealous of the dead things:
the way they
scrape
against each other
in the wind,
beating out an eerie music;
the way they break apart
so easily,
so happily,
break down,
and float away
on a gentle breeze
that makes them make their music.

And the wind, too.
How it moves,
untouched by howls and screams
and pain and dreams
and broken hearts and poetry
and death and longevity.

And forget not the trees:
stable,
sturdy,
strong,
even the saplings
spring forth with
shrill and
soft determination
unlike anything
I’ve ever seen
in man or plant
or bug or beast,
grow the trees
with strength unmatched,
minus,
of course,
the ax.



And the weeds.
Yes,
the weeds.
The prettiest flowers
I’ve ever seen
that grow in
the sidewalk cracks
and the gravel
and the gutters
and the gardens
and anywhere else possible.
Living anywhere, anyway.
And surviving.

Even thriving.

The Road Goes On Without Us - 07/15/10

if we all
were dead,
sure,
no more pain,
but no one
to appreciate
the magic of
the lack of
tears

so, no matter
what is said,
by dead
or dying men,
there’s a reason,
some reason,
to fight
for your life
against your own
caving heart

Freak - 07/15/10

Three of the words
I hate the most,
I say the most:
I don’t know.

I can’t bare not to know,
anything
everything
something,
and therefore
nothing.
I want to know everything,
so I must learn nothing,
too.
But not knowing,
and knowing nothing
are not the same,
not by a long shot,
no where near.
And I don’t know right now.

Don’t know things I’d like to know,
things I want to know,
things I need to know
but the universe
is keeping it on a need to know basis,
and apparently
I don’t need to know.
But I do.
Or,
I’d like to.
But I don’t.


I miss you.
Deeply.
And the lack
of your words
on the screen
is making me think
that maybe it’s me,
that I’ve done something,
said something,

wrote something?
Could that be?

It’s just making me
empty,
dead,
worried,
and filling my head
with thoughts
that I’m trying really hard
not to think
but those thoughts sink
into my skull
like bullets fired at my head
and tell me
“you’re a freak,
and you’re weak,
and you’re better off dead”
and I just wish
I could know something else instead,
but there’s a lack
of facts
so the thoughts
are all I have.

Pretty Patterns in the Blood - 07/14/10

Killed by the 7th alcohol induced heart attack
Killed in a suicidal overdose of Prozac
Killed in a midnight car crash
The blackness is taking all its souls back
And making pretty patterns in the blood
Like crooked heartbeats in love
And all just because
I’m never sure what I’m thinking of
It’s a messy in my head
Like under my bed
Feel like I’ll get sucked in
To the blackness within
Looking for a way out
Of the shadows of doubt
But I can’t find
A single ray of light

The Earth Isn't Flat, It's Cube - 07/14/10

White walls,
Paper sheets,
Everything clean
And bright.
Stack of kid’s magazines,
Messy with the clean.
Sterilized smell,
Nauseous
With the anticipation
Of the doctor’s return
Of my mother’s response.
List of doctors,
Brain doctors,
To talk to
Scrawled on a piece of paper
To my right.
Cube little room,
Walls closing in
Waiting
And waiting
And waiting

Veto the Addiction - 07/14/10

Say you’d pay
For a day
In my brain?
You’d just be paying
For a day
Of pain
A little
Masochistic?
Well, that’s okay
Join the club
Cuz even I’m
That way

And unfortunately
It ain’t just for
My poetry
That I’m this way
Ha, no way
Honest to the core
And probably
Gonna stay
That way

You see,
If there’s something
Wrong with me
Something that can’t
Be changed
Chained
To my brain
I’m not interested
In addiction
To make
It break
So put
The prescription
Pad away
Forget it, Doc,
I’m okay
This way

Am I tired
Or am I sad?
No one knows
Not even my own
Mom and dad
Cuz I hide it
Confide it
In few
I’ve made it
This far
This way
Who’s to say
Anything
Will really change?
I’ve got no interest
In it
So let it be
You see,
Even if there’s something
Wrong with me
It makes for
Damn fine
Poetry
So I think
I’ll stay
This way

Thank You - 07/10/10

there's a moment at night
at 1 in the morning
or 3
or 5
as i see the sunrise
through my window
still haven't been sleeping
and the insanity
starts creeping
in
and begins
to make me see spots
see strange little dots
on the walls
and the floors
and the ceiling
and the doors
it's at this moment
my brain
ain't what it should be
what it could be
could be nothing
should it be?
but no
no, there's a reason
there's a need
form people
I've never seen
they say I've got talent
they say I've got skills
I sometimes can't see it
but still
maybe
just maybe
and it's a reason
just another reason
I always need another reason
to keep doing what I do

Daydream - 07/08/10

Bring in the professionals
To sharpen the butter knives
Rock 'n' Roll heroes
With Hollywood wives
Lyrics about drugs and sex
Running out lives
Yet we say without it
We just can't survive

Stab me with a spoon
And I’ll fade away
I'm just a daydream
Doesn't matter what you say

Joe and Mike’s neon socks
Rancid’s Clash tribute
Begin
To make me think
That from your lyrics
I take too much in
If the preacher was right
And dancing's a sin
Then Hell's a dance floor
So, Devil, take me in

Stab me with a spoon
And I’ll fade away
I'm just a daydream
Doesn't matter what you say

I’m nothing more
Than a daydream
Soncocted by your
Lyrical scheme
Underneath the poetry
I sing my songs
To me and only me
Can you feel the beat?
Reverberating through
The summer heat?
If I could be famous for it
Well, wouldn't that be neat?

Stab me with a spoon
I'll fade away
I'm just a daydream
Doesn't matter what you say

Summer's So Hot - 07/06/10

with the sun
and the stars
and the gentle breezes
and the flowers in them
and the coals
and the swimming pools
or the lack there of
and the soft grass,
covered with dew,
sweet as the unripe raspberries
that sway in the wind,
grow so bulbs,
yet still tart,
and fall off
into the sweet grass
late at night
late in the deep purple night
like the ocean
rocking back and forth
in the heavens
with little pinpricks
of its glowing white blood
that scab up and form
the hot
hot
hot stars
to dance under

They’re Immortalized On VHS, I’m Changing Everyday - 07/07/10

Christopher told me
He told me
He told me
“Believe.”
Said:
“You’re brave
And you’re strong
And you’re smart.
Smarter than you think.”
But forever
And ever
And ever
And ever
Is even longer
Than that seems
And it’s getting harder
And harder
To believe
That I ever dreamed
Such a dream
But Christopher told me
He told me
He told me

“Believe”


My captain
He told me
He told me
He told me
“There are four lights.”
Not five
Or three
Or anything
In between
Believing is seeing
And I start believing
That I am seeing
Things not there
So maybe
Just maybe
It’s five

All I Need Is A DNR And Some Pixie Dust - 07/06/10

So if I’m dreaming
Please don’t wake me
If I’m happy
Don’t disturb me
It’s better than reality
By far
Breathing in music
And dancing on stars
And swimming through pavement
As easily
As sliding down a rainbow
But I guess
You wouldn’t know
No, not a single clue
But that’s you
And this is me
And I am I
Would you like to change it?
Good luck
Say I don’t have to be like this
And it’s true
But I also don’t have to be like me
What if this is me?
And this is me
Me, dancing on dew drops
Lighter than nothing
Those who know everything
Must know nothing
Cuz everything
Is something,
Even if it’s nothing
Cuz we're all nothing,
But to me,
You’re everything

Hopes Rise and Fall Like Fireworks - 07/04/10

Light this sky
This dark sky
This veiled window
Like a gothic bride
Ribbons and lace
Seems like it’s such
A disgrace
Not to see the light
Night sky without stars
Without a moon
Without a chance
To bring yourself back
On your own will
The fuse is lit
But in your silly mind
It’ll end so much brighter
So much louder
Such a bigger bomb
To shake the streets
And make your ears pop
And your eyes see spots
Form staring
At the colors,
The colors
Brilliantly shining
In sudden bursts
Of beautiful
Of bright
Of magnificent
Ribbons of fire and ash
So destructive
So lovely
Spinning
Flying
Bursting
Breaking
Falling
And beating
Back down on the road
With sparks
And jumps
Like heart beats
And sparks
And jumps
And all with the
Hushed awe
Of those looking on
The flames reflected
In their dark, glassy eyes
Reflected on
The veiled windows
Of the houses
The line the streets
Like toy soldiers
All in straight
Little lines

But sometimes
The fuse is consumed
Eaten alive
Without so much
As a scream
By the flames
The leap from lighter
To line
But the sparks
The lights
The pops
And bangs
Of dynamite exploding
And flying up
And crashing down
Is not but the crashing
Of all the little visions
That your silly mind
Works up
In anticipation
Because you think
That you know
That the real deal
Will no doubt
Be even better
Until the real deal
Is nothing
Nothing at all
Just dark, glassy eyes
Reflecting other eyes,
Just veiled windows
Reflecting the ones
Opposite them
In the dark
And the cold
And the sinking
Of hopes through your heart,
Feeling
   it
      all
         come
                  down

Headache Dreams - 07/04/10

Amid the

      Pop
            Pop
                  Pop

Of the rockets
That burst colorful
In the dark sky
Lighting the celebration
Of life through death
Of liberty through tyranny
Of peace through war
I dream a dream
Of a world
That I only see in my dreams
So far off
But it feels like it’s
Within my reach
And I reach out
Into the blackness
Lit by the occasional

      Pop
            Pop
                  Pop

Of dynamite
And fire
Kissing passionately
I grab a hold
Of just a corner of that world
And pull myself
With all the strength
I have,
Strength of heart;
To hold myself together;
Strength of body,
To hold myself up;
Strength of mind,
To hold the world around me
The way it should be;
Strength of soul,
To glue it all together,
Like gravity does the universe.
And I,
Myself,
For I do alright just
Myself,
Plunge into this world
This different world
This nicer world
Where the

      Pop
            Pop
                  Pop

Of patriotism
And the sound
Of my family
And the strum
Of guitars
And the laughter
Of happy people
Doesn’t make my head
Spin
And trip
And smash
Like someone lit
One of the rockets
Off inside,
Blowing my brains
Against the side of my skull.
I dream that I’m floating
On a cloud of cotton candy
In a purple sky
No sun, but still light
No clouds, but still cool
With a gentle wind
That relaxes
And refreshes
Keeping the air circulating
Keeping my breathing right
Steady
How it should be.

Sometimes,
I dream that I’m laying
On a carpeted mountain range,
No more than thirteen feet
With dew drops
That hang still in the air
And make music,
Little drops of music,
As you brush them.
I dream that I’m laying,
Looking up at billions of stars,
Much brighter than the

      Pop
            Pop
                  Pop

Of fireworks
But they don’t blind
And they don’t hurt
My hindered eyes,
They just dazzle
And glitter
In the night’s skirt
As it dances back to day.
But in that day
The stars
The stars
The stars
They still shine
Just as brilliant
And I dream this dream
This happy dream
And I feel it
For a few seconds
Until the

      Pop
            Pop
                  Pop
Of fireworks
Brings me back to reality

We Don’t Get Bigger, The World Gets Smaller - 07/04/10

Seemed like
When I was little
When I was just a kid
The whole world
Lit up
On the fourth,
Not just this little bit.
Seemed like
It was the most
Magical
Like it was the most
Beautiful
Like it was the most
Special
Thing in the world.
Like fireworks
Were dragons
And dragons were real.
Like that was cool
Not frightening.
Seemed like I couldn’t wait
To light one off.
Seemed like the world
Was nice.

And it also used to seem
Like holidays
Meant something.
Like there was a reason
That tradition was important
That we had to
Just had to
Make a leaf pile
And jump in it on
Thanksgiving.
Like we had to
Just had to
Wear green on
Saint Patrick’s.
Like a million other little things,
But that’s just it:
They're little things.

And when you miss one,
Just one little thing,
Suddenly it’s not a big deal.
And neither are any of the others.
But that’s a big deal.
The fact that it wasn’t.

Crying because
You feel nothing.

Like Flowers in the Wind - 07/01/10

Silent,
still,
restless
in the early afternoon sunlight
that shines through the blue veil
with undying persistence,
light and dark.
A wind picks up, just slightly,
and pedals brush
light pink
against each other,
gentle
at first, then
closer and strong, then
rougher as the wind grows the same.
A bit heavier in the wind,
leaves meet leaves,
meet stems;
as pedals do,
coarse meetings,
wherever they can meet.
Stronger still,
the wind
coils
stems around stems,
blowing so hard
roots are exposed.
And then the hurricane,
winds so fast,
almost too fast,
flowers ripped from the
soft, fluffy earth
of the pillows and blankets
and into the air,

floating,
floating,
floating

on an ecstatic gust
in the soft blue sunlight
of your bedroom.