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.