4.28.12 (trapped)

drunk,
still drinking.
anxious,
still thinking.

furtive hunters,
making their rounds.
sorting females,
leaps and bounds.

dark eyes,
hard hearts,
so many voices,
and many false starts.

illusory terms
with the world,
easily tangled
by some kind girl.

words from the heart
capture the soul,
but the hardest hearts
remain forever cold.

4.27.12 (anxious zine party talk)

i want to take

a razor blade

to my arm

and watch

your blood

spill

from me.

i want to

split

my skull

and watch

your memory

fly out

of the chasm.

i want to 

vomit

every word

exchanged

between us.

i want to rid myself

of this

wretched illness.

4.26.12 (destroying)

bad decisions.
late nights
and drinks.
your ghost
still haunts me;
your earthly presence
near or far.
i drink more
to forget
steps i should
have taken
things i should
have never said.
i wake up,
sad,
confused.
drink coffee,
try to
make it
through the day
into the night;
back to the bar
and more drinks.
i dig myself deeper
into debt,
drink myself
stupid
again.
i am destroying
myself
to destroy
your memory.

4.24.12 (patient)

patience.
remember,
patience.
there have been
an infinite amount
of sayings to
remind:
all good things
will come in time.
remember,
patience.

4.24.12 (lone)

i know
at times
i am
lonely,
but i have
seen
the hunters
and
the hunted
and i know
who is truly
lonely.

4.24.12 (child)

every day
i see it:
skin,
wilting
like flowers,
devoid of
light,
of water.
hair,
sprouting
like vines
from every pore.
skin,
discolored
like molded bread.
each day
this fate
edges ever closer,
to the day
that i too
ripen with age
and in passing
return
to dust.

4.24.12 (nails)

since i
stopped
chewing my nails,
this hand
does not look
like mine.
it no longer
looks nervous
but normal.
thats nice,
but i dont
think i
like it.

4.24.12 (clumsy)

there are
many girls
whom i could have
loved.
many for which
my pen has
tried
to find words
to match their
beauty.
a clumsy hand,
an untamed soul;
a juvenile mind,
a heart of gold.
i have wanted
to love,
but a clumsy hand
and a
juvenile mind
are scarcely equipped
for a beauty of their kind.

4.24.12 (art)

some people's
conceptions of
art
are so fucked
to me.
they prefer
structure
or
regurgitation.
i like
the kind
thats just as
fucked
as the person
creating it.

4.24.12 ($)

i've never
been good
with money.
i've always
hated
the holes
it burns
in my pockets
and the machines
its turned
my loved ones into.
scraping by
gets old,
but its better
than greed.

4.24.12 (hope)

hope
is something
i do often
but rarely
feel.

4.24.12 (pills)

times like this
make me think
that perhaps
i really should
consider a
doctor.
maybe some
pills
really might
help,
but i've always
preferred
my futile efforts
at fixing
myself.

4.24.12 (optimism)

a morning
much like
the rest
but i feel
strangely
optimistic.
i don't know
where this
came from
but i wish
it would
stay.

4.22.12 (numbers)

two
became one
and one
became two
then two
returned to one
and one returned
to two
and one
became
half
and then
numbers
became
irrelevant
in the shadow
of three.

4.22.12 (times)

those nights
we spent
wasting time
were worth
much more
than the many times
i have spent
doing anything
worthwhile.

4.22.12 (ashamed)

a broken heart
is nothing more
than another
article
of jewelry
that many wear.
some flashy,
some worn,
some cheap,
but all
broken.
i wear mine
shamefully,
because
i have always
believed
in love,
but i've never
trusted
the way
love works.

4.22.12 (i)

i.
just that,
seems beyond
strange.
i
am
not the
same
as you?
we are not
as one
in some way?
we eternally
search
for reasons
why we are
different
than someone else,
because everything
feels so
saturated
and diluted
by persons
grey.
is there ever
a feeling of
whole
in
i?

4.20.12 (corner)

well,
you have
survived,
and i,
i have
retired
back to
the corner
from whence
i came.

4.19.12 (outward)

joy,
pure
and
undulated,
is a
feeling
far beyond
the scope of
words.
it is hard
to be
happy
when everything
feels so
tasteless.

4.19.12 (+/-)

i tried
being a
positive person.
i worked
against
the negative thoughts
to turn them
objective.
things were
going well,
but events
have made me
question
everything.
so now
the objective being
argues
with my
distaste
for everything
everyone.
i feel
like such a
hypocrite,
stuck
arguing
with myself.

4.19.12 (coffee + no sleep)

is there
a reason
why we
equate
physical feeling
to emotion?
like the
knots
in our
chests,
to longing
anxiety
heartbreak.
is any of this
real?

4.19.12 (grey)

tomorrows
and
yesterdays:
places,
times,
people,
feelings.
now
and
never
blend
together
and
everything
seems grey.

4.19.12 (lamentable mournings)

on lamentable
mournings
such as this,
i can feel
the weight
of my
heavy heart
burdened
by the pains
of premature aging.
these mournings
i wish
there was a shoulder
to lay my head on.

4.19.12 (serenity)

serenity
is not
a feeling
i am very
acquainted with.
anxiety
and doubt
turn my
stomach,
while
sorrow
and regret
seem to
paralyze me.
calm down,
you'll be home soon.

4.19.12 (fear)

i think
when i have
reached
old age,
when i am
crippled,
it will not
be caused
by neglect
for my body
in my youth,
but the fear
i have harbored
all my life
of being decrepit
of decaying
in my old age.

4.19.12 (glum)

bleak
and blank.
blue skies
and the
warm touch
of the sun.
it's a strange
feeling;
beautiful weather
for such a
glum mood.

4.17.12 (the lover's pen)

the lover's pen
can scarcely find
proper words to describe
the light that shines
from your cavernous mind
and escapes through your eyes.

4.17.12 (still)

sleep
and breakfast
and still
anxious.
sober nights,
i've stopped chewing
my nails,
anxious still.
brain teeming
with unkempt
thoughts,
and me,
a mess.
always anxious.

4.17.12 (desire)

desire.
my bones
ache
with a
longing
for the warmth
that radiates
from flesh
upon flesh.
the taste
of skin,
of love,
unhindered.
pleasure
without another,
without love,
feels so
shameful
to me.

4.17.12 (still silly)

i feel
silly.
i don't know
when
my attitude
towards you
shifted.
i recall a night:
drunk, lost, lonely.
my head in your lap,
in the back of some truck.
but then,
it was more
matronly;
a sad friend
in the comfort
of a kind friend.
perhaps that
tenderness,
something i had
scarcely received,
was my downfall.
regardless,
i feel silly
that i still
think of you
this often.

4.16.12 (big boy)

its painful
trying to live
unhindered
when the workings
of my brain
only want to
play reruns.

4.16.12 (gardener)

i had wanted
to be a gardener,
to plant flowers
in the cracks
of your heart.
i wished to recreate
something
beautiful;
the heart in it's
most whole form
is something of
incomparable beauty.
but the sting of
regret,
the sting of
heartache,
has not allowed
the flowers
to grow,
so your heart remains
nothing more
than cracked soil.

4.16.12 (pangs)

strange
how nostalgia
comes in many forms.
one can experience
heartbreak,
happiness,
loss,
and
love,
in an instant,
and redeem those
fleeting emotions
for one moment,
then return to
reality
an instant later.

4.13.12 (good night)

reassurance
on drunken nights
cannot compensate
for what was left behind.
darkening clouds
gather above
and you pursue what you feel
to be the winds of love.
and i am stalled
i am crippled
by the harsh winds wale
by the cold tides ripple
i wish for a carnival
a show for all friends
a happily stagnant time
one that never ends
our prison is our home
our garden is our bathroom
our sustenance our longing
our hope buried in tombs
we are the ancient
the everlasting dead
we are everything we wished we weren't
we are the nightmares in our heads.

4.12.12 (might)

a mighty man
once said
"keep your face
to the wind,"
and i have tried
to live as such,
but like men,
even the mighty ones
must perish
in due time.

4.12.12 (memory)

lonesome
memories
of times
passed
or past.
lost
in time
or to the
ravages
of memory.
i think i met you
once before
in a dream,
but i can't quite
remember.

4.12.12 (secrets)

secrets i hide
and truth i find
in dark
and crowded streets.
but lose it all
in lovers claws
when i'm tangled
in your sheets.
some friends of mine
figures of time
consult
and then we weep.
for once lost,
now found
but never
can we keep.

4.12.12 (journeys)

so oft
does the journey
become whitewashed
in the shadow
of the destination.
strange though,
the journey
is often
far more valuable
than start
or destination.

4.12.12 (bus)

sitting
on the bus
i feel the hands
of another
night at the bar
as i close my eyes.
i feel water
gathering along the edges
and saliva
slide past the knot
and down my throat.
i smell a homeless man;
strange
how they carry their scent
like luggage.
i open my eyes
for a moment
and see faces,
familiar and foreign,
then close them again
and slip back
into that dizzy state
of sad daydreaming
rest.

4.12.12 (when i first met you)

when i first met you
i did not know
where you would lead me
but i would follow blindly.
when i first met you
your name
did not mean so much.
when i first met you
i watched
the sun, the moon, the stars,
vanish in your eclipse.
when i first met you
i wanted to be a part of you.
even now,
i may be
nothing more
than a memory,
but i am
with you
still.

4.12.12 (speck)

there is a name
for the colors
one sees
when rubbing
their eyes.
i cannot recall
the name
but it must
be something
beautiful.

4.12.12 (quiet)

my face
rested
in my palms;
gazing downward
my mind is in
a race
or a rut
or drowning
in a river
of whiskey.
in this state
silence
sounds like
one thousand
trains, planes, cars,
crashing into
bass drums and cymbals.
how unbearable
the quiet
has become.

4.12.12 (spill)

in my heart
i see weakness,
not in the sense
of strength
but of
character.
i see my
self-doubt
and watch my steps
falter.
one's dreams,
grandeur or simple,
can carry one
only to a point,
after which one must
leap.
to leap further
and reach
beyond
what one expects
or hopes
or dreams,
is proof of will,
proof of existence.
i do not know
if i am capable
of such a leap.

4.12.12 (defacing art)

with little effort
do i write
because it is
much easier
to translate
longing
and loneliness
and distaste
and disgust
and many more
freely walking feelings
into a poem
of ugliness,
of unending
slavery.

4.12.12 (chained)

my arm
tethered to a tree,
and you
wandering freely.
i wave
and shout
to many
passers-by,
but it is as if
no one
sees my waves
or hears
my cries.

4.12.12 (re:)

i want
to recreate
the feeling:
tired
on city buses
staring at the light
cast on the ground.
bored in bathroom stalls
shitting
staring at second rate graffiti.
lonely
in a cold, loveless bed,
eyes fixed in the dark
on the ceiling fan.
i want to recreate
what it is like
to be in love,
then destroy everything
i have built
for you.

4.12.12 (thoughts)

on mornings
like this:
stomach
tied in knots,
brain
teeming with untamed thoughts,
heart
squirming in the morning light.
i sit around
and wonder
what it's like
to be
anyone else.

4.12.12 (longing)

on many cold nights
have i wondered
amongst the wandering
of my thoughts
of what it is
to be alone
and it's faithful counterpart.
all i've wished for
is a hand to hold,
a warm body next to mine,
a voice that says "don't go."
but she has not come,
and i grow
colder
and
wearier
still.

4.12.12 (more feelings)

sitting
and feeling
from others;
feeling
feelings.
i'll have mine
and
you'll have yours,
and you'll vibe
with others
and then you'll go home
and so will i,
but i won't feel
quite the same,
i will go home
and i will wonder.
i will go home
and i will wait.
again.

4.12.12 (dreaming)

i have grown tired
of yesterday's trials
and have dreamed of
tomorrow's trials.
i look toward
the sun that sets
and i have seen the blood
that many shed.
but i too grow tired
of the rambling life,
yet still i dream of
so many memorable times.
i have forgotten
so many passed yesterdays,
still i dream of tomorrow,
still i dream of happier days.

4.12.12 (swift)

touched by
the palm
of destruction
and of angels
that have brought me
about
but have also
dragged me
below.
into a stagnant
sea
any wave,
makes a difference,
and you
were a
tidal wave
that left
quick as you came.

4.12.12 (quiet)

i don't understand
how this works
but i really don't
understand
how i can
observe
and feel guilty
and betrayed
and disgust
and distaste
and longing
and disgust
and regret
and the disconnect.
i wish
that we
could crawl over
the hump
and return
to that boundary
that we crossed
because this
awkward state
of silence
is worse
than any sort of
ill will
that any of us
could have possibly
contrived.

4.10.12 (dishes)

the sink
is overflowing
with dirty dishes
yet again.
it seems
as if
the moment
things are cleaned
they are dirtied
a moment later,
and i'm getting
tired
of my hands
being so sore.

4.10.12 (puzzle)

this puzzle
is distorted.
many pieces
still fall
to their appropriate
place,
but i have
shifted
so oft
that i
am no longer sure
where it is
that i
belong.

4.10.12 (off)

a full night
of sleep
yet something
feels off.
i feel the pangs
of anxiety
but for reasons
different
than before.
the uncertainty
of the future
makes me feel
hopeful,
but desolate.

4.10.12 (ghosts)

ghosts
of memory
of feeling
haunt me.
i write these
shitty poems
to expel them
from me,
but when they
are not present
i long for
their return
only to
cast them out
once more.

4.8.12 (aimless)

i always
feel
so aimless.
like the
subconcious movements
of my hands
and my legs
are being done
by someone else.
crushed by
boredom,
i'm getting tired
of waiting
for anything
to happen
but i'm too afraid
to risk
making a decision
i might regret.

4.7.12 (naive)

through drinks
i spoke
to a friend
about our ways
and he told me
of the hunt
and i told him
of the wait,
and the weight,
and he told me
i was doing well,
and i told him,
i wasn't so sure,
but he assured me
that it was better to be
patient
and to continue
to wait for
it to come,
instead of hunting
for another vulnerable
and lonesome lady,
and to continue waiting
for her to come to me.

4.6.12 (water)

three
and i feel
tears fill my eyes.
no explanation,
maybe what has came,
maybe what is current,
maybe what is to come,
but it exhausts me,
and i will wake up
tomorrow,
with little recollection,
but still feel
hollow
in some sense,
because i will know
i have shed some
weight,
only to gain it back,
in days passing.

4.6.12 (hope)

one hundred years
of broken hearts
and one hundred years
of lost dreams.
one hundred years
of sad faces
and one hundred years
of misplaced hopes.
one hundred years
of expectations
and one hundred years
of disappointment.
after one hundred years
of so many feelings,
still, i say,
hang your noose
and i will cut it down.

4.6.12 (cheers)

drinks,
and that
sleeplessness;
well shit,
i feel like
some sort of
origami superman:
crumbling with
each movement.
my bones creak
and crack,
and my joints
ache,
and more drinks
mean
more hangovers
but more nights
that i can actually
sleep.
kind of.
i guess.
maybe?
and then,
i get to
go work,
so that i can
repeat this process
one hundred times over
until i can take no more
or keel over
and die?

4.5.12 (friends)

where is one
to find a
friend
in this world?
i have been
a bad friend
to many,
and a good one
to few.
if the same
is true
for all,
what hope
does that leave us?
with issues of
trust
and
desire,
directing our will,
we travel forth,
righting,
wronging,
searching for more
friends.

4.5.12 (inside)

i've been
trying.
trying to learn
to talk.
it's hard,
trying to express
that which
i have worked
so hard
to suppress
all my life,
but alas
it grows,
and it must
come out
eventually.

4.5.12 (caffeine)

i feel
my pen
shake
as i
write
and my eye
quiver.
i feel
the hollow core
of my chest
while my mind
races.
losing sleep,
and drinking coffee
to compensate;
i hope
this isn't
as apparent
as it feels.

4.5.12 (escape route)

miles
of pavement,
mountains,
green.
I look
for an
escape
from the
dirge.
i will
use this
emergency route
to try and get
my feet
back on
level ground.

4.5.12 (part of something bigger eventually)

Thursday morning. Another night of little sleep and I'm on the bus again. I feel my eyes quiver and twitch out of exasperation; feeling this way is getting old. The sky is mostly grey, with a few patches of blue, trying to claw their way in, and a faint sun, glinting through those bleak clouds–appropriate weather. "It's April already," I think, recounting the past few months. I let out a long sigh, "Years fly by, and I can scarcely recall them..."

It always seems as if the majority of one's time is eclipsed by one or two events. This year is no different. A calm january night, for four turbulent, drunken months. I've grown used to it though, and have gotten eager to return to my ways on the road. "My birthday is nearing; a little over a month and I'll be another year older." I've been thinking of saying, "Congratulations! You've made it through another year!" instead of "happy birthday," but it seems a bit morose. I'm trying to imply a celebration of the current, instead of years passed, but I could probably word it better.

I've been thinking of my plans of the future. I always seem to be. A one-way ticket out of country sounds like a livable dream. These times we live in: stale, no romanticism. Perhaps I'm just looking in the wrong places, but the lack of has left me almost criminally uninspired. I hope to change that soon...

4.4.12 (home)

the truth

in just being

is proof that i am real

but i cannot say

the same is so

for the things that i do feel.

meanwhile the cogs

and gears of time still turn

and my life do they steal.

all the while i am

trying to find

some place while i do roam

the place where i

feel i can die

a place solid as stone

it is the place where i

will settle down

the place i will call home.

but in this heart

among the blood and veins

many memories do i keep.

some bright as day,

some black as night,

some that cause this heart to weep.

but when i find my home,

i'm sure of it now,

i will bury them on that street.

4.4.12 (somber)

there is a cruelty
in inaction,
in silence,
in boredom.
it is the oppressive
state of being still.
my brain aches to
a swell,
not because of disuse,
or even misuse,
but because it's been working
far too hard
trying to stay grounded
in the midst of turbulent times.

4.4.12 (abandonment)

i have become

taboo!

such a funny feeling:

being cast aside

by many.

it makes the

many hours i spend

alone

that much more

justified

i suppose.

i cannot say

it is the worst fate

to be misappropriated

in such a manner,

but this all feels

very juvenile,

and for that

i am bitter.

4.4.12 (apparition)

in the waking hour
i have not been haunted
by your presence
and i have not been
clouded
by the thoughts that
once were,
but in the hour of
sleep,
in dreams,
you came to me,
or rather,
i to you,
and we were as friends,
and it was nice,
but heartbreaking
all at once.
in the dream,
i cried,
because i realized
i was dreaming
and this was
some impossible truth,
and when i awoke,
i had a headache.

4.3.12 (reflections)

observing
reflections
tired eyes
gaze back
at a sad,
scarred face.
it always seems
strange
to me,
how young
i still look,
and others,
seem to
think so too.
i suppose
i should be
glad
i do not look
as run-down
as i feel.

4.3.12 (overuse)

words
are like
magic
when wielded
correctly,
but words
cut like
knives,
when used
maliciously.
even so,
when used
to perform
magic,
words can lose
meaning,
if one tries
to manufacture
magic.

4.3.12 (insomnia)

sleepless nights
come far too often,
and days when
i succeed,
i stay in bed,
savoring
the little rest
my body achieves,
because i don't know
when such times
will return,
and i will be
tormented by
days
like today:
sleepless,
disconnected,
a hollow shell
of a being,
carried by
some wayward
wind,
i cannot describe.

4.3.12 (muddle)

through times
muddied
do i dredge.
clouded by
ones
i had been
deceived by,
pursued by
those whom
i have
deceived,
and still
i am
interested
in no one.
i long for
touch;
the warmth
of embrace,
but i fear
it will not
come,
nor would it
feel warm,
without love.

4.3.12 (twilight)

in the
darkening hour
of twilight
when the
wind
calms to a
breeze,
and the
incessant songs
of the birds
turn to the
lonesome cries
of those
left behind;
in this hour,
do i feel
most at home.
there is a
solemnity
that resonates
through the
darkness:
it is the
gathering
of
lonely souls.

4.3.12 (defeat)

under
circumstances
of defeat,
one has
but few
options:
one can
accept it
gracefully,
moving on
to the next
trial,
or
wither away,
forever
defeated.

4.2.12 (to one who i have yet to find (the undiscovered muse))

a voice
that carries
all other sound,
because none
could be as
beautiful.
eyes
deeper than
the universe
itself.
a smile
warm enough
to melt
the sun.
regardless
of what
any other
sees,
all i see
is you.

4.2.12 (basement)

four walls:
two of cement,
two of plywood.
and darkness.
cold
and
lonely.
i remember
nights
neverending
locked away
in that
prison,
and now
i don't miss it
so much.

4.2.12 (back)

misery
is a funny thing.
i do not wish to
eat
or to move.
i consider
returning
to the basement
from whence i came
and i recall
the misery
i experienced there,
and i compare
the two.
i cannot conceive
the horrors
to come
in either case
so i am left
with nothing more
than the stale taste
of alcohol
on my tongue.

4.2.12 (excuses)

this feeling
or lack thereof
makes everything
seem lackluster
or unworthy
of my time,
while i spend
my time
waiting
for something
to happen,
or for a
drink,
to make waiting
be less
miserable
and to make
time
move quicker
than a crawl.

4.2.12 (tattered)

lost
at sea
at least
i was moving
before,
but
then our ships
collided
and now
my sails
are tattered
and you
are sailing away.
again,
i am a
castaway
until i
am found
or i find
the courage
to sew new sails
from the remains.

4.2.12 (tomorrow mournings)

its always
theres always
tomorrow,
but tomorrow
often feels
like today,
and today
doesn't feel
very good.

4.2.12 (to dust)

weathered
withering
feeling
decrepit
and looking
the part.
rotting away,
festering
with
cowardice.
remorse,
regret,
redemption.
i read on a
sign,
in front of
a church,
"your setback
is your setup
for your
come back."
all it's gotten me
is a feeling
of uselessness,
and an inability
to care for
anything
anymore.

4.1.12 (lower class)

tomorrow
always feels
like an eternity,
it has aged us
and then some.
today
and tomorrow
become
decades
in the
eye
of indecent
time.
such is
the way
of life,
and such is
the way
of the
poor man.

4.1.12 (AND)

i know
i am saying it
through
clenched teeth,
but i wish you
the best,
and i hope
you can recover
what you
threw away.

4.1.12 (next day)

so maybe
i feel
like
you were
a phony
all along.
so maybe
i feel
like
i got
ripped off.
it wouldn't be
the first time.
so maybe
i figured
i had struck
a line
of luck.
so maybe
i always knew
there is always
tomorrow.