my thoughts & me.

tonight when i was walking through

the forest in the dark

it was just my thoughts and me.

and it's not something new,

because usually it's just us,

and it's always

quieter than i can handle.

it was cold out today and even more tonight,

especially when i was thinking

about how much warmer

i felt before.

but i'm always going back

and forth.

and maybe it's my fault that it's like this

because i know i'm always

running away,

but never running to.

it's just a long distance

that i travel alone.

one more night goes by,

and one more day,

when the sun rises.

and everything seems a little

hazy now.

maybe i just need to put things

into focus.

or maybe i will just

circle in regret

for every decision that i make,

and every moment that

i relive.

it's not really the way i want

to live my life.

but until i reach a point

when i can handle pain

i will just be here

in this forest

taking pictures

so that i can have something

to hold on to,

when it's just my thoughts

and me.

what hurt feels like.

for a moment

there

i thought

things were

better

or at least

less lonely

and now i

just contemplate

if i

did the right

thing

or at least

not wrong

there are hours

when i want

to take it all back

and then

i remember

what hurt

feels like

but i guess

it doesn't really

matter

since i chose

and you're

probably not reading

this anyway

door.

an open door is

swallowing another person

whole

and they disappear

behind the glass

i watch the doors

trick them in

promising shelter

and then just spit them

back out

after

they are shadows

vacant souls just

wandering aimlessly

through life

i am letting it happen

to me again

and wondering

why i do this

if it will just

hurt me

we all think, maybe

it won't happen to us

that our shelter is

found once we walk through

the doors

and become

wrapped up in someone else

but we are just

used

i learn

time after time

they open up

beckon us

and lock us in

until they are bored

of what we have to

offer

i got stuck inside

of you

so basically

i failed again.

maybe.

if only there were

more days

to figure out our lives

and be sure.

but we are always asking

for more

aren't we?

we are given

ample time here

and everything we need

to become who we will.

but we are always blaming

someone else,

don't you?

and hypocrisy is such

a beautiful thing

because it's like seeing

someone punch themself.

but it doesn't stop us from

making judgments

does it?

nothing really makes sense

as an outsider

observing behaviours

and never really living.

but that's our own fault

if we choose to be

that, right?

if i hadn't wasted so much

time observing

judging and blaming

maybe i'd be me.

but i don't really know

who i am,

do you?

saturdays

"saturday is always

all right

if you want to fight me," she said.

"but friday, is a better night

to keep our mouths quiet

and just enjoy what we have...."

h

a

d.

it's almost dawn

and i'm thinking of you.

it's almost light

and i'm lost in the dark.

"but saturday," she said.

"is all right for us."

i remember.

but i'll never agree that it was.

because we will never be all

r

i

g

h

t.

there's a morning breeze,

dew on my window.

but it's not the fog

that you left after

a passionate night

like before.

"saturday is all right," she said.

"there are no other

days to remember."

but i thought

we had something

m

o

r

e

unforgettable.

as i wipe my bloodshot eyes

i remember

that

we are

who we have

become

and we are

who we want

to be.

and maybe,

if that's the case

you are

you

and i will remain

me.

but saturdays are always

the right night

for fighting.

bukowski

What are you supposed to think

when you grow older and all

you have left are books of poems

filled with words that you wrote

but now seem unimportant?

Pages and pages of crap about

the people you've met, loved, hated

but nothing that seems worth

looking back upon because

it just makes you so sick.

When I'm old enough to have

that pathetic collection of poems

that I keep stacked on a table

like puzzle pieces to my wasted life,

I still won't be Bukowski.

At least he knew what the fuck

he was doing and could tie

words together so that they

pulled each other along like

the cars of a freight train.

And all the while I keep writing

because it seems to be the only

constant thing in my life that

will always be there even if

I leave it in the corner, ignored.

But no matter how many pages

and pages of crap I put on paper,

I will never be that asshole that

wrote such beautiful fucking poems.

I'll never be Bukowski.

SSH 205

Three hours I have spent

frozen in this chair.

Her mouth releases nonsense,

her eyes leak a codeine-induced stare.

It's always a long morning

when I have this class.

My peers spend it ridiculing

her lectures, because they are so crass.

I wait for two o'clock,

when I leave this room.

I cannot focus my attention

on this prof's crazy, face-like cartoon.

I wish I knew the point

and why I must pay

to spend Mondays listening

to the useless things she has to say.

I will wait for April,

two more months away,

only to start my classes again

at the very beginning of May.

spider's irony.

Netted in a web

was a flailing fly

trapped in the spider's bed

he could not help but cry.

He shook and wriggled

flapping tiny wings

but the spider giggled

and circled him like rings.

The spider came close

looking eye to eye.

The fly became morose,

as he waited to die.

And in one swift move

the web fell instead,

leaving both beneath shoes

where they were left for dead.

leaning.

The kitten is tired of playing

with this string and me.

So it just dangles there like

I had dangled my heart

in front of you for you to

catch, but you never did.

I'm leaning here on yesterday

because it's tied to closely to

this morning and the sound

of rain running down the

window like the tears that

had run down my face.

And your sympathy is all

that you left me with as I

lay, surrounded in rhetoric

while somewhere, someone

is living through the same

hurt, but choosing to stay.

There is only hope for tomorrow

and that with each passing day

you will fade from my memory

like fog fading when the cold

outside air mixes with the

warmth of my room.

I only wonder if rearranging

the words exchanged would

bring another meaning or

another way to say what

we had to say, instead

of saying goodbye.

And all the while, I continue

to dangle this string and

my broken heart in the

face of something that

might change how I

feel and make it OK.

war, not love.

The snow sparkles and melts

with each imprint he leaves

on the sidewalk as he

moves like molasses

down the street.

His nose is swollen and matches

his wine-stained lips from

when he drank with her,

laughing, then crying,

earlier that evening.

And as he walks, there is a clear

struggle to his steps that is

pulling him backwards,

back to the spot they

parted and left.

His hands clasp around a velvet box

that he removes from his coat and

opens, staring briefly at its

contents before throwing

into the snow.

His eyes gleam and puddle,

his mouth moving from

sadness to anger and a

frown to a scowl and

back to a frown.

Flashing images abduct his mind

with pictures of the girl, his girl,

tangled in bedsheets with

someone who is not him

but who is a thief.

On the corner there is a small house

made of bricks that break his skin

as he hurls his fists at them

over and over as his

blood stains them.

Once his knuckles are raw and bare

he replaces them with his head

cracking his skull open against

the little brick house that

is taking a beating.

At home, she locks the door one,

two, three times, and moves on

to shut each window before

entering the bathroom

to clean her wounds.

Her broken nose has not yet healed

from the time he used her head

to smash the house's bricks

until it was flattened

against her face.

She dresses the wound and studies

her scabs, cuts and bruises

and all the while she

is breathing slowly

and smiling.

we, you, i.

we rode together, underneath the bridge.

blue lights of the bus, reflecting off your face.

as if you were choking, gasping for air.

the longer we traveled, the shorter it felt.

we were nearing something, in my mind i

was pushing it away, closing my eyes.

on the porch i glanced at your mouth, sneering.

you pushed me inside and pulled me into you.

i grasped the edge of your bed, strangling.

tricked with the promise of friendship, platonic.

you came closer, your breath fanning my face.

i turned to leave, but your arms were a trap.

you were too heavy, dead weight on my body.

soon, my limbs froze, i shuddered beneath you.

i was your play thing that you used, forgot.

never stopping to ask how it would change me.

i was something clean you could soil, break.

bodies touching, my mind, running away.

we would pass in the halls without words to say.

you with your friends, acting the same as always.

i stayed alone, not wanting to look up.

we had been something more before that one night.

you used to be what kept me calm, grounded.

i now know the difference between dark, light.

leaves.

in the trees, leaves clap together.

brushing each other for warmth.

the frozen ones snap off, dance in the wind.

they land, barely touching the ground

before they are swept up again, away.

they kiss the sides of houses, greeting.

connecting with each building, being,

as they move into the blackest night.

no time to rest, forever traveling, dancing.

visually manifest that nature is fleeting.

their short lives in time with the seasons.

born from the ground, killed by the sky.

alive for just a moment, a brief visit.

no different than the lives of you and i.

when our winter comes, we die.

circles.

in circles i ran

chasing a tail.

spinning so fast,

chasing a tale.

i spun around,

not making a catch.

what i wanted,

not able to grasp.

always ahead,

a few steps away.

the hope of you,

farther each day.

i would reach,

grab thin air.

you were too fast,

no longer there.

so i slowed,

took time to breathe.

and i looked up,

watched you leave.

with time to think,

and you now gone,

i realized that

we had been all wrong.

i was just chasing

a tale, a dream.

i though all along,

needed you to breathe.

i no longer chase.

i no longer run.

i no longer fight.

they will come,

when they come.