...new spoken word...

it took me 5 years to realize
i'm not
the dEFition of skinny
and only took a month to know
didn't need superficial assholes
who wanted that since
i got the confidence not to put up
with that sorta nonsense

it took me 6 years to not get over him
took me another 25 to finally realize
im not quite courageous
he points out my fragility best
but im still vexed, are we poison or the infected

it took me 19 to know id never be
blissfully happy and I'd sit in my dorm
wondering why i couldn't conform
id cry so hard id fall to the carpet
couldn't stop it, but didn't know how it started

took me 25
for my brain to com---part--mentalize
it's fears
and only when i let myself feel
does it become real just for a minute or two,
my heart physically aches sometimes
thinking of walking down that isle
without out the smile of the guy who raised you as a child
but behind the sighs and rolled eyes
ill make it somehow
always wanted to prevail more than a wedding vail, anyhow

----
so this is my ode to honesty
the part with the most beauty
thats what takes hold of me
and you want my respect
say out loud what scares you
courage is easy when everyone's watching
let go of everything
and you're already free
-------


and it took me 24 years to understand
i only love people who need me
more than i need them
because then in the end
it wont be my fault when it crashes
but they're all talk, and it catches, up

it was his addiction, was it his condition?

they couldnt love me well enough,
all the frustration when he couldn't change for me
well fuck that because it's my insecurity
and even though our culture make us seem less than perfect
find perfection in the sections no one else can
my perception's wide open, honest and free
to see beauty in the unconventional, the unintentional
come on now are you with me

--------

materialism is a disease slowly seeping
creeping, deepening the voids in our psyches
creating these superficial, fake bonds
to plastic and metal and so on and so on 
until we're so disconnected it's hard
to access anything that's not polite
trite, oversimplified or consise

and this has gotten so messy
the news doesn't inform it depresses me
so find the honesty
and create the beauty
its the only way out
its the only way out
the only way out
we need help.

a lost recount of the beginning of it

and how i come down every time

i should be used to it

used up
used on
used over
used all.

and i used to
care
loudly.

you taught me about
silence
and
ambivalence

if this weren't about you
it wouldn't be
anything.

if i weren't about you
my pain
my love
would be with no application

either way
the fumes fill my twig-thin rib cage
bones snap
other organs fail
but my perfectly dark blood pumps
just the same
pint after pint
pressing on

my eyes black out
i collapse
dead, but not
and the paper looks off-white
when my eyes open after i've lost consciousness
i sit up
i wake up
i try to remember where i am
but where i've been
is the only thing i'm left with.

at room temperature

burning buildings
car crashes
seem so small
so
easy

i want
intricate destruction
years of it
i want to wake up one day
and finally be broken
finally finished
finally, utterly fucked

but not dead.

maybe then i'll be free from this hope
ive had it for a while
and it's taken me no where
i look to this quiet coming down as a relief

i want to be what i feel
something tangible
clear incisions
calculated

chist.
you look wonderful
but your insides are an empty freezer at room temperature

still there.
useful until opened.

the old/new which still sounds true

i am not the sensation pulsing your veins
i am not your retreat
i am not the words falling from your wornout mouth of revenge
i am not your akward glances
i am not your hopelessness
i am not your tiny phrases
i am not your
escape
i am your trap
i am your last cigarette
i am your missed call
i am your pangs of doubt
i am your unbrushed hair
i am your hateful remarks
i am your underplayed table manners
i am your tangle
i am the heart cooking your brain


-----


Manic recollection.

i don't know which one scares me more
remembering you
or
forgetting you.
either direction
i am lost
right
or
wrong
you're dead
i'm alive
we are polar oppisites
and
i'm the junkie
and your sweet, beautiful face
becomes my finger prints
when i take my dirty
hands off the mirror
and each smudge
is a different expression
but always has your same
gorgeous-summer-sun-highlighted hair.
i fall back onto my memories
i clean them
i polish their every intangible segment
i keep them very close
and sometimes
i silently ressurect them
where they are no longer a figment haunting
but a realization that i am
going fucking mad.
but you're still
more perfect than i could ever recall.


------



i have been your's for so long
i have forgetten what it was like
to not have you rip my pretty paper outlines

i have been your's for so very long.
when you didnt want me
(and when you did)

you did something to me
i was helpless when in your presence
i'll always be helpless when it comes to you
i've tried to fix myself,
you've even tried to fix me

i lie awake and remember
only the things that make me miss you
i lie awake and take doses of reality
to calm myself
but i only end up crushing my lungs into syncopated sighs

i live the same stories
but i can never recognize
the trecherous beginning that are always
accompanied by this
same ending.

L.

i painted the beauty on you
and that
was enough

i don't believe in your bullshit
and neither do you
but together we indulge in it
like the end isn't lonely and the surface isn't so deep

how old was i when
i became this
because tonight i feel
one
year
old

Startling.

this is a rare time i wrote about someone specific.

i dreaming up ways to finish the story.

because there is ... much more.

---

and he stepped toward himself, then stepped away. it was always easier like that.

it was always easy this way. yet, he felt a certain swirl in his blood, a collection of thoughts stopped at his wrists.

they were fresh and without contamination from his brain. he wondered, hopelessly, when they'd finally reach his center.

his core.

his optimal focus of neurological contents, but the night was young and his friends were younger. he was here for one reason.

he was here to last.

every so often, he'd find the words to write the music. he wasn't odd in looks or stature, but somewhere, restless but reserved, he knew how to stop it.


maybe he was dying. maybe he wasn't. either way, there was no difference. he's been living like this his whole life, it's going to take a little more than death
to really stop it now.

and when he was high, it wasn't a separation, but a cohesion.

light looked prettier on his skin. it didn't dance, but gently glided upon him. constantly moving, rearranging. his brain couldn't keep track of the instances.

he never noticed these nuances. these trivial nothings turning themselves into somethings. he never noticed them, but was always looking. and that was the problem when he was always producing his best work in the dark of day and light of night. it was backwards, and he wanted to go forward. But, there wasn't a path or even a projection for him to attach himself to. there was only him, and he couldn't figure out who to hate for this.

because he had tasted the opposite of lonely and it was, of course, bittersweet. but only he was bitter about the sweetness he received, his brain never seemed capable of processing what his heart desperately tried to attain and so faithfully searched for. and so the separation both internally and externally came to reach and grab him, never allowing for a clean break or a flowing continuance. but always a painful halfway, or even worse, going all the way only to come right back to where he started.

and at which point, he could no longer remember where or what he started with, and so, the ends were much like beginnings, but the beginnings only somewhat like ends. because the beginnings at least had the falsity of a different place and time. but the place never seemed to dictate where his time would fall through.

and it was a rush and a goddamn circus. every few years ending up in the same shit. the revolving sequences were sustained and even dreams haunted, a reliable escape gone arye. And so the only escape was within a darkened and blurred consciousness. the escape was an escape and the escape was not an escape.