pretense. summertime. young.

"I've tried to love myself many times this month, this year..."

A few poems about a man I knew for a little while.

Drug use. Not appreciating the ocean.

Showing up in a new place without any money, job, place to live. Feeling hopeful.

I spent a lot of nights in St Thomas sitting on the church steps across from my apartment smoking weed, reflecting on my life.

What is an appropriate reaction?

Prose. Two short scenes.

A sloppy bit of overcompensation. He doesn't know how to deal with me.

the title is what I had saved the file as. this is possibly unfinished. music and rock bottom, and the notes and the insides are the same thing.

backyard instructions.

bare bones.

The act of belonging to someone else.

The first part: Reflective, referring to the actual situation. The second part: I'm trying to be honest. SummerWinter. And for the record, there's supposed to be brackets, not parentheses.

This is all I can write.

I've had trains on my mind lately. Home is still two weeks away. I need something new.

babble. things that have been stirring around in my head lately. my heart is going to be the only thing you’ll recognize

even smaller. lately.

little. stuck in the middle.

I am tired of lying to myself.

when everything shuts downyour body and surroundings a lazy drip.

this season.

winter shrinking everything smaller than the universe.

-the end of a relationship.

seven lines.

a poet reading his poetry

observations

like oleander

Five lines.

for this month it's biting nails

Every night during the summer at ten p.m. the train would go streaming past the only house worth spending any time at.

quiet. I have been Quiet lately.

the dedication of a book.

His neuroses sounding like a slow rumble of dissolution//WARNING: Do not read this out loud if you have a lisp.

Feeling over-the-top. We refuse to believe that we'll be here a second longer than we have to.

Segregation=Commune, with a malnourished exterior. I mean what I said.

The world is gripping a pistol in its hands: 9 lines.

"We’re a mess with each other"

He's a mockery, a quiet derision.

shrinking fingers again. This poem: think con. C-O-N. it all means:

cheesycheesy. I wrote the beginning stanza of this poem in my head much earlier today, and it took all that I had to remember it. 7 lines. Contemplating the world.

Burrowing in blasphemy.

Exponential decay. Lilac trees. Music so loud that it disrupts any natural functions.

-a detached mood. "two people loving to be completely out of order"

and last night my mother was weeping at the kitchen table.

Can you really blame them? .22 calibers & they're stumbling down the stairs.

I Hate Trains

[Slight] sexual tension, with a hint of nicotine-like, messy concepts of each other. Or maybe the other way around. (I need the absurdity)

/ All of this, and still the idolatry is being broadcast. /

God do I love the snow, but that crazy long winter made me too restless. And death? It doesn't go away.

I need for it to be summer.

These past few nights. My goodness. 2 poems. It's a simpler writing style, this next wave of poems.

The deed is done, so now is the time for [over]reacting. 8 lines.

-Short, stream of conscious like. staggered and splattered and she claimed it was love.

Pack up your things.

Sometimes you lose your grip on things and you're figured out.

One-shots, almost all dialogue.

Galaxies hidden in/Lifetimes rotting in/The pores of his skin

Self-absorption still denies the postage stamp.

A severe sense of loneliness because it's the half-assed rainy days that get me down.

Confrontation. "I'm a walking satire/A breathing black eye"

(Little Baby Born Blue.) My usual tale of destruction and (metaphorically but maybe not so much) suicidal relationships and are you sick of it yet?

The company I keep and games of control, games that never were any fun.

A rock/roll. Music in all of its glory. "Consecration is this man with crystalline ribs..."

"I never claimed to want to live forever," and with that statement I wonder how anyone can have any misgivings.

A person decides at the last minute that they're not ready yet to let anybody into their creative side. It's different from my usual.

Everyone has their escape plan, but it's harder to find someone to help carry it out with.

This is an explosion, so good luck deciphering it. (I'm the man sitting on the bare couch with the cushions gone and x's on his palms...)

This poem makes me feel dehydrated and I'm almost sure it's a true story. It's about this boy in the corner of the room and I want my name laced around his wrist.

Infatuation and blah. Yes, and blah. It's short. May has not been my month.

This is babble, possibly pretentious babble. I didn't think about a single word in this poem until after I wrote it. It's a little rushed. I refuse to say that it's my usual. "We were freedom in every wrong sense of the word."

An accident cuts apart the morning.

He cries down midnight as I shake under the weight of promise.

Personified Poetry.

"Remember me" it chants, making me revaluate the position of my veins.

I guess you could call it heartbreak, even though the mediocrity of the word doesn't seem to fit.

Carnival smoke and forgotten candy wrappers: It spit me right back out, and I have the pictures to prove it.

Drugs. Cocaine. "...teeny tiny lady bugs resting in the particles of my skin And lacey lustrous lady Ms. Snow, how can we just sit here"

All barefeet and snarl balls, twigs and weeping leaves... I'm innocuous to the point of indiscretion.

Night. "...Fixated in our candy apple infatuation and both wishing that my ballet flats would give me the iridescence to fly."

Maybe I just don't feel like being any fun anymore.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that you're just using me as a reason for everything you don't feel like explaining.

"He was my perfection for a little while; Rose buds and tourniquet dances that you can only suppress for so long." Inspired by one of my favorite bands. Maybe.

"She breathes in your scent - salty like you just spent the day in the ocean, unversed, not yet tainted with everything that fuels her." This is a story that can happen any time, but half of it is in reference to Christmas trees.