i need a crutch, not a blind guide who needs my shoulder as much as i need theirs

sometimes i don’t know where my own words come from, like i go into some sort of trance and suddenly, theres a page filled with words that were probably better off alone without me coming along and ruining how perfect it had been completely pristine. theres a strange sort of beauty locked away in emptiness. just so simple and honest. it’s a comfort for me to finally be able to wholly understand something for once without the great mysteries of life and my imperfections being dragged into the goddamn mess. i get the tiny fibers that press together to make a sheet of paper. i get the ink. i even get the sounds of far-away chainsaws hacking away at what littles left of our planets rainforests and all that bullshit. i get it. i just don’t know why i insist upon fucking up something so impeccable with words that might as well be the stains from a broken pen, since thats all theyre worth anyways.
it strikes something inside of me. less like "strike up the band" and more like how "the stroke of midnight" feels for the prince or "third strike, you're out"

from the lonliest bed in hawaii to the coldest fingers in nebraska:

those who live by the sword get shot by those who dont and so on
a part of me wants to grab onto him and never let go,
and that scares the hell out of me
ive never thought up something more petrifying
lost my mind when i lost you
lost you when i thought i didnt need any one anymore
gave up on hope when i had to grab a flashlight and a search party to bring it back home at night
(traded in hours for wishes, so you could wish me away forever)
lost faith when i realized my baby dog was only getting older
with love,
the only person you let in and out of your life because you loved them

nothings wrong with a little s&m in the butcher shop

nothings wrong with how i'm feeling, but i shouldn't have to be this way
frightening places are in my dreams but only because i wish them there.

the bullet flies back into the barrel of a gun.
water drips down from the drain and into the faucet.
the car crunches from out of the tree and speeds around the corner.
a flowers petals curl back up and the stem grows back into the dirt.
1-1-9 are dialed and the phone is slammed back into the receiver.
the nightmare comes down in slow motion from the sky and crawls back into a mind.
and even if things were on rewind, no one would even notice because our minds would be backwards as well.
at least in my mind that is how i think of you.
as the sun is going down its the sign of something new.
most people view the sun coming up as the beginning, the new day and all, but i like the night, i’m a night owl.
so the sun going down is a sign of something new, a new beginning.
that’s how it works in my head at least.

somehow finding comfort in blaming everything that goes wrong on "just the way i'm feeling"

keg stand poetry for the recovering alcoholic

sorry, but that boy needs somebody
the way we all need our cake but need to eat it too
how we'll spin ourselves around in circles
and suddenly we've become the
epitome of ourselves
at least in my mind
th(at/is) is how i think
of
you

adsum (i am here)
i'd be a great secret
please keep me
flash

"you're married to the vultures. i dont wanna laugh til you're dead"

"There is no future in anything. I hope you agree. That is why I like it at war. Every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. I have to write to be happy whether I get paid for it or not. But it is terrible disease to be born with. I like to do it. Which is even worse. That makes it from a disease into a vice. Then I want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven't gotten any. Thats the only one I have left". hemingway

"this will take more than a weekend.. wont it?"
adding question marks not where questions necessarily lie
but just to tickle grammars fancy every chance we get.
and where there is grammar there are late nights
listing things off and rearranging words more out of habit than anything else
they will always be a promise.
more like a gapping mouth with cold muscles
and they haven't taught our Children what tragic is yet
but itll be the look on Their faces when the jokes on Them
when the shits piled deep and jaws are hanging low
take us to the hospital
so we can grow weeds in Their eye sockets
and charge 6000 to Their mothers credit cards
so the car with nine backwards letters can become a getaway
so the white gowns and fingers can get us off (the right exit)
and theyll lie the young faces down to sleep (you've made your grave now lay in it)
cackling in their own little hell. reading poetry and drinking down nightmares.
diseases are vomiting them up.
and the stench will be green ($)
and will blow over the fresh dirt mounds and blank stones.
and the muffled words behind those wretched hands will be "ipromiseipromise"
too graffic to grasp
too greedy to be grim

amor vincit omnia (love conquers all is unrelated)

the scarecrows got a sick sick mind and the crow speaks a mile, a mile a minute.
the one with the terror-white face, wilted whims, the one who couldn't quite get away
let the tasteless minds drip drop from your lips
a shot of iodine so their x rays eyes can see into your insides.
letting hunger feed you from the inside out.
take your grim and graced words and put them on ice
and how we grow old in our bulimic township.
vomiting up gold lacquer… thick enough to cover up a spinal tap.
leaving frowning stains on our faces, enough for our neighbors to get up and CHASEus.
capturecatchcorral. seven inch fingers reached out and EMBRACEDus. twisted lashes touch skin long enough to have MAISEDus. pupil swimming serpents lash out and let the forked-tongue TASTEus.

i’m lost but at least i know i’m out of my mind, and i think i’m on the highway but i don't wanna tell you the state i’m in.

and it's sick but not as sick as the look on the caretakers face
mawkish open mouths, remembering scores and sweat

in love with ink and lousy poetry.

i knew i loved you from the minute we met, when all you knew about me was my first name and how much i liked music.
how “words actually limit what we can feel and express” was the first thing i heard you say and how true that holds.
how when you would touch me arm i would calm down.
how that didn’t work and how much i cried when i looked into the sky and told you about how i broke down over the summer and when i realized that one day my parents would die.
how you said “promise me you’ll drop in sometime” and how i promised and how ive broken that promise.
how i could never really talk to you again and how much it breaks me inside to know that you’re really gone.
how guilty i feel when i’m happy and i feel like you’re missing out,
but how i know you aren’t and that youre looking down from your place in the sky everyday to check up on me.
how all i could hear was your laugh the minute I found out you’d taken your last breath.
how that moment will always be living and breathing inside of me.

“You’re the only person I’m close to and sometimes…and sometimes I just need to be closer.”

there are many great mysteries love, you just dont have the heart to listen..
and its too bad cause like a good lawyer and cheap alibis the clues would get you off