you are a novel written in a dozen different languages, all of them beautiful but none of which I can understand. This attraction started with curiousity and will end in disarray.

"stay out of my life!"

For once I would like to be the tumultuous and emotionally unstable one in the relationship. I'm not your dad, and this life we share isn't some overdue homework assignment, put in some fucking effort. 
I'll let you in my dreams if you'll let me wander into yours from time to time, because it's a good life aslong as we never weaken. Your smile makes me think the whole world's a sunny day and for a split second we conjoined seamlessly with the hope that it is and will be as long as your keep your little hand intertwined with mine but it won't happen because your pretty keen on that musician. I walk around with a smirk from a heart to weak to feel for a single second longer, but it won't help with the future black eye yet to be giving, when our friends shout "that boy's a gunslinger" and the blood trickles from noses the way, it seems, you always wanted to see. But it won't explain why after so long you decide it can't be me.

with all your lies you're still very lovable

Your eyes were like stars someones god thought I should have,
but I've come to learn thats not you lying in those clothes
its just a figure of a girl I used to know.
now my bones are like some broken down machine
or a rusted trampoline
So I sit with my legs crossed by the door
with my blood full of beer
and my lungs full of smoke
waiting for the night that you decide to bring her back home.

The grass we used to grow
now hides under a belly of snow
and the summer I sought,
which once smelt so sweet,
now feels so cold.
Like in our dreams
we only have so much we can control,
and though its been only some years
it feels so long ago.
Will this springs air smell as sweet
as the ones we used to know?
I can't count on your frozen fingers anymore
to hold my hands
which held your face.
all I wanted to be
was a warm hearted man
who tucked you in
and sung you to sleep
before your heart was heavy
when it was just little, light, and sweet
like the curls on your head
or the green and blue socks on your feet.
I dont have those skills anymore, i dont think
to sing you a song that makes your heart weak.

remains to remind

Your drive and incomparable passion to make me hurt is staggering just as your infatuation with being held by someone else, someone lesser or someone better, is heart wrenching. But the question begs to be asked, my dear, what have I ever done to justify yourself and the heart you own in committing these actions? My teeth ache almost constantly now, just as every wandering puddle in the street seems ten feet deep, but like all things once stepped through and accomplished naively disappear and never seem to have taken a toll. Like when your eight and your head throbs and you think it will never leave you, "once this is gone" you state "I will be grateful for every second of its absence" but within minutes of its departure you forget it even hurt until it floats down through the trees, and tucks itself back into your eyes and head and chest for another round of bruises and bumps, and it remains to remind like so much else in life, that pain is an old friend of the soul which you insist must come around and visit often. Little pieces of my heart fall off every time, they sprout legs and arms and little souls of their own, and they climb down my spine and slide down my legs and hide in the cracks between the floorboards and socks and crumbs. They wish and wait and plead for me to give up on you someday soon.
there are stray lines
that swim through each fleshy cell
and stitch those eyes
back together
and the grass builds up
around and around
and pennies fall to the earth
and toy airplanes circle our heads.
but this isn’t some dream.
oh no dear, it's not
but don't go and believe it's too real
because it's not as solid as you think.

girl breaks boy's heart
boy gets angry
girl gets angry
boy apologizes

washed up

You broke my heart in two
and I'd leave a half for you
but you didn't even want it as a whole
so I'll stash it
in the box that hides under our bed
containing movie tickets
paper hearts
and old love notes,
from a time when our writing was still messy.
An unwanted reminder of
when you were a little teenage girl
with little girl dreams
and little girl attitudes.
A time before you
drifted us into
a relationship
which can now easily be described as
"fucked up."

One of your friends leaned over
too drunk for reason,
and stated
"Thirteen billion years ago
everything in the universe was contained
in a tiny ball that could fit
in the palm of your hand,
can you imagine that?"
Seemed obvious,
you always fit into mine.

Spring has come
and it's relatively early
my posts are lacking
Life is difficult
and fucked up,
but still pretty exciting
at the moment.
I'm taking a break
I think I need a more
visceral approach.
But I'll post as often as the inspiration hits me.


our knees are dusty and bloodied and torn
and our palms smell like sun and our toes wiggle to be freed from their shoes
but we can't skate in barefeet with broken toes.
Her t-shirt is too soft to hide her bra
pressing out from the fabric in the spot where her almond hair meets her spine
the lace wrapping around her ribs
resting against the pale soft curve of her chest,
rising and falling as she breathes in the new spring air
still cool enough to give her goosebumps.
The light grey concrete blends with the white sun
lacking its orange summer tinge
and the days are long and absurd again.

                 we share a certain stillness


So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

blink and it's over

These are the kind of girls who hang dream catchers above their bed, who eat pomegranates and read old history books for fun. These are the kind of girls who take pictures of their hands with disposable cameras and wallpaper their bathrooms with pretty roses. These girls sketch eyes and mouths and little drawings all over things, they look you right in the eye and almost through you when you speak to them. These girls camp out in their backyards for fun, they light candles everywhere, and if you visit them at home they usually have all sorts of animals. Their wardrobes are filled with silk robes and bows and hats, they drink tall glasses of milk and snack on chocolate while they watch the sun rise. These are the kind of girls who ride bikes through the city to the cinema that plays old movies in the middle of the day. They watch "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and "Rosemary's Baby". These are the kind of girls who are quiet in public. They were the kind of girls who put too many marshmallows in their hot chocolate and when the sun goes down, they light the fire and pretend to be in the North Pole. They would water colour things they couldn't see, and eat French toast for lunch. These girls were the kind of girls who always believed in unicorns, they believed in the power of love and dreams. They were the kind of girls who gazed out of windows at bigger worlds, and rain made them think of faeries and tree houses. In the Summer they read Jane Austen and listened to Fleetwood Mac while sipping cold tomato juice.They told ghost stories under huge floral sheets, candles glowing beneath their faces. The spooky endings made them scream and laugh. They huddled together so they wouldn't get too scared. Every sound outside made them jump
Don't pass me off, don't disregard this effort. I hope you are well, I hope you see the world well tomorrow. I hope your mind blooms as beautifully as I once saw it bloom. I always see your world when you push your bangs gently against my nose. I hope the god you've made up in your head smiles and never doubts ever again. I hope you steal candies to share with me. I hope you walk on sidewalks as consciously as I do. I hope when you ride your bicycle you don't think of me because you should be thinking about bicycling. I hope you hear my hopes. I hope you hear my thoughts and never think less of me. I hope you stop wanting to be anywhere than here, here is the only place I can be. Here is the only place I can have you. I hope we can still share shadows. I hope you light the candles and pour your eyes over pages of books which send you to those places you always want to run to. I hope our pain only lasts as long as the sliver of darkness which vanishes and leaves us the morning dew. I want to live with you in a state of progression so sudden that people call us hypocrites, living a contradiction because what people heard yesterday, we already woke up and moved forward from today. I hope our thoughts become substances and begin to radiate what is within us.

to realize takes real eyes, dear.

You stupid Motherfucker.
Your guilt drips off the counter
like spilled milk gone sour.
It leaks out like a man's strength
over a lifetime.

It hurts when I look at her now.
and it hurts when I don’t.
She was what warmed me up inside,
and is so often still what tears me apart.

You were smarter than I thought
so many people waiting for you to show
and so many disappointed that you didn't.
But I know it's a small city, man,
it's a tiny scene.

Now a broken heart
is left waiting in the corner of our room
between the yellowed pages of twice read novels
and forgotten socks
to be sewn back together,
everytime a little weaker than the last,
again and

I lack the weakness to give up,
I lack the strength to walk away.

no knives, punks only

I smell a fist fight
and for once
I'm pretty stoked about it.


I thought about something,
I wrote,
I napped
and dreamed something too,
and with all that something,
I still have nothing
because so much of something
has always been
and always will be you.
How much of your something
am I?


"The two hemispheres of my mind were in sharpest contrast.
On one side a many-islanded sea of poetry and myth;
on the other a glib and shallow rationalism.
Nearly all that I loved
I believed to be imaginary;
nearly all I believed to be real
I thought grim and meaningless."
                                -C. S. Lewis

stars will rise again

"Do you think she's wonderful?"
Because so many girls are wonderful
I imagine hundreds of young men
have called their loves wonderful today
and it's only noon.
You couldn't possibly be something
that hundreds of others are.
You're much to uniquely splendid.
I'm afriad to close my eyes
and sleep at night
because I'm afraid of missing out
on something of yours,
a quiet sigh, or a deep breath,
something so beautiful
no single word could describe it
and no novel could recount it.


sometimes i have entire dreams
about the soft spot near the bottom of your spine
where my palm would fit.
her skin lulls my fingertips to sleep
yours still calms my mind.

misguided ghosts

I would give up an entire lifetime
to be the air in your lungs
in a single breath.
Like the air in mine,
you are the immeasurable substance
that keeps me alive.