It's funny because I go through a week where I can't write anything, and then out of no where it just floods out. It's to the point where I can't stop thinking, and I can't stop writing. It's painful either way. Not being able to write keeps me up at night. It feels like I have sandpaper for eyelids. But when I just write and write and write it makes me slightly uncomfortable. How can someone have so many thoughts all in one spot? I never know where to put them. It's half easier typing them, but then again it's weird having everything on the internet. Anyone can read them, not that anyone does. But its the fact that once I delete them, they're never really gone for good. And here I am, at another thought that's irrelevant.

No matter how often I try to get you off my mind, you're always there. I've told myself over and over again that no person is worth that much space. It worked for a long time, I was able to remain cold until I met you. I'd sprint away from any sign of affection. I must have held my eyes shut for too long, because you dug a hole under my fence to get in, and now you've escaped. I can't quite tell whether that was my intention the whole time or not to capture you and let you go. Because now I see golden people and they only look false to me. Nobody ever measures up to you. I'm not placing the blame on you. I did this to myself. But you are taking too much space from my poor brain. I don't think you could ever believe my brain to be worthy of picking. I shed my skin far too often for that. I wish I was new, I wish I was the mystery you once knew. It seems like I've just turned into old news you're obligated to keep in contact with. How have I managed to do this to myself?

Inside This Fire

Soft waves of heat
pinch my nerves
as my pores open,
confused.
Now, they are wide awake
waiting to be seized.

The lampshade is crooked
and my wrists are sweating.
The light hits my body
like a siren.
Futile brush aways
ignite the sparks
into a full fledged wildfire
on my body

Higher and higher,
the smoke enters my sight
My eyelids burn
As I sleep inside his fire

From the Vault 2

Voices I pick up off the sidewalk,
I cradle them into my two cold palms.
They mumble to me,
I can never quite figure out
what it all means

but theyre crying
and I cry too

From the Vault 1

Why are you SO rude?
Your sound stains
airwaves
It cripple smiles
into signs of finite
indifference

I'm begging for silence
on top of a bookcase,
resting on words
slowly rusting
into the pages.
Silence silence slice
into me and let a flood
escape.

Would you please
melt into someone
elses
tucked sheets?
I just wanna be adored
in the rain in june.
Instead you leave me outside
in january
with hail
beating at my braided hair.

But, your
Creme white syllables
only last on your tongue
long enough to
tug my vocal chords so near
to bleeding.

Hear me out-
be quiet.

Well, this is in three parts

I

As fiction becomes fragmented
and truth becomes the vinyl,
The needle scratched my spine,
deep.
The ashtray on the table
gets knocked over--
up in the air!
Gravity brings it down
spewing
the contents
on the carpet.

It's a one sided saunter
like a ghost over the water.
Is it really happening?
No- no sir you've got me all wrong.
I want your scent
and not your touch.
He slowly slips his hands
down a cold beer bottle.
I see him stare through the glass
as his fingers swallow the curves.

The music skips
at the bridge.

For a narrow second
I couldn't breathe.
Focusing on the moonlight
through the window
I remembered his hands were
nothing like this before.
My fever broke
and it all made sense.
My eyes were meant
only to shut
only to shut
only to shut
shut shut shut

and he walked away.

II

you’re like the sunset. you’re like the comas that i remember to use. you’re like nothing ive ever tasted before. you’re like the fire in my throat, the ink on my paper, the looseleaf in my notebook as it unfolds my poor brain. the emptying bottle of perfume i spray desperately to my wrists. you’re like the first time i got high. you’re the feeling of my nerve endings, pulsing all at once. you are the time i forgot my name. you are the time i cried mercy. you’re like a wasted fuck. you’re like all kinds of sickness that makes my insides slowly rot. and when i came down from the ecstasy i bled all kinds of mistakes. if i could ever remember my name again, i would use it to wipe that smirk off of your face.

III

The center of this apple
has kissed the air and now
is slowly dying.
I wish I didn't have to see
the process before my eyes.
Cigarettes now fizzle
in the glory.
Deep inside potential once laid.
Seeds, stop pretending.
Because you'll be nothing
but dust.

Your violent hair
is hidden under a hat.
You're writing words
onto thin
thin
paper
to avoid even looking at me.
The letters look just like lines
connecting to other lines.
You're not a writer,
You're not a man.
You are only the silence
between sobs.
Keep writing.
As each word hits the paper
it dies too.

I saw you take your hat off
and your shirt.
Shadows from the blinds
cake your skin.
You cough out some
bullshit smoke
and have no apple to put the fire out.
I am not your ashtray.

and now
as the sun rises
the night dies too.

Balloons

What is a quote
If nobody has
verbally spoke it?
Just words on pages,
thoughts in the brain,
Awkward Language
breeds and stays here.
It is waiting to get out,
for someone to breathe into
the balloon.

Why do I ask so many questions
when I don't want to even know?
Words are our perfected
untruthful thoughts
Expressed to impress!
Curiosities stemming from
empty air.

I hold allotted words
in my pocket each day
and pray for a conversation
to expand.