Fuck the Quarter System

Why
do I do this
to myself
and suffocate
myself
and drown
myself
and burn
myself
and taunt
myself
and torture
myself
and lie to
myself
and beat up on
myself
and smother
myself
and overwhelm
myself
and expect things from
myself

The Poem Has Been Written (In response to: The Poem Unwritten by Denise Levertov)

In that instance, we both knew that no one would know us better.

Ever since that moment, the pen that lives

caged by rusty metal in my chest has yet to cease

scribbling the thousands of thoughts that you bring

to my seemingly insane conscious.

When hysteria knocks on my skull,

turning the soft thumps into deeper booms,

infinite ink oozes from the tip of my pen as my blood becomes

the words that I am endlessly sewing together for you.

As long as I am living, you will have poems.

Moving these words from blood to paper

Is not as simple of a task as moving from place to place…

Budging this boulder, giant and realistically an impossible feat,

with words and commas, suddenly becomes possible.

My dear, the poem has always been written.

people are garbage

The way that people ask me
"Why are you being so nice to me?" --
How is it that hard? To simply care for someone else.

Weird

When I see you in the morning,
I will no longer be mourning.

It hurts but it's ok

Sometimes it hurts a little too much

to care a little too much.

Is it too much 

to say that if I didn't care about so much,

I wouldn't care about living so much?

My Face is Leaking

When my face starts to leak,

I expel my quelled troubles

into Kleenex and

at other less convenient times

into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and

the space between my brows

grows two lines that know each other

but have never really met;

still, my heart promptly answers their loneliness

with escalation of oscillation

provoking a competition

between

my vision and my perception

to see which one will be victorious in dominating

the reality of this tender moment.

A Sunday That Isn't, Really

Petals crash onto the marble-tiled floor --
A broken plan made of shattered love.
The color of spring stains the ground
and washing it away would only erase the sting.

When water floods my view
am I watering the blossoms in my chest
or diluting a poisonous concentration
meant for only me to drink?

My dear, we are falling
upside down, so maybe it is flying,
but that doesn't change the fact
that I feel like I'm falling sometimes.

I never thought that the Strokes could make me cry,
but today they did.
Static creeps above the silence
and I breathe to kiss it away.