betting on the muse: 02/01/2009

you used to be forbidden fruit

when the desperate sunken breaths
begin to quell
and the
clenching freedom
is gone
i search my chest
cavity, for your exact definition

naive obsession
you are the apple
outside the garden

where do i lay my head in sadness
when i only have the warm crutch
the space between your shoulder blades
and the nape of your neck

i am defining love
tonight
holding you close

how do i scribble at small punctures
when i've only ever known a black hole

placing bets, pt. 1

"I walk alone, but I feel ya there,
smiling upon me, I wonder
what you have drawn on your hands today,
runes to show you remember."

I walk alone, but I feel ya inching your way

along,

inching your way

you lightly caressing the bruises of

every pain i've ever felt

cup your hands around my soft

chin,

sometimes i worry about the

mess

i put you in

the curve above my jeans,

gentle belly with hip bones

(expletive)

cup your hands around my soft

skin,

lover,

lover

you are the muse

just some lyrics

"Was I in your dreams, I'd like to know.
Did I touch your hand and did it feel like snow?
Try to understand while I've got you on the phone.
Did I hurt you like I know I can?
Tell me why you'd ever wanna leave your lovin' man.
Try to understand, please try to understand.
Was I in your dreams, was I in your dreams?
This dreamer died when his dreamed died too.
But I don't really mind if I dream about you..
I can't say what any of that means.
Oh, was I in your dreams, late last night.
Did you hold your pillow, did you squeeze me tight?
I just wanna make everything all right.
Was I in your dreams, was I in your dreams, was I?"

soft little tears

there is a tear
from so much use
i still see the rip,
raw
white and naked it
lays there
buried with a sea of
warm blue all around
i still see the rip,
exposing the edges of my
panties...
beautiful
imperfection
the latest fashions have
been ripped
for
us
it must be excellent
to have not
"imperfections"
but perfect,
inumerable little flaws
because that's what
they want
to
see

sigh

i can forgive so easily

but it's much harder to forget

because it makes talking about the future

a little more scary

which direction you headed?

don't fucking read this

this is a waste of time

BUT YOU STILL LOOKED AT IT

let's lock our parents out for good

and do our goddamn jobs

let's lock everyone the fuck out

and do our goddamn jobs

let's be honest with ourselves

and do our goddamn jobs

let's write about sex we never have

let's curse and complain while we change the things that stay the same

let's throw in our love like it's fucking dirty laundry

let's clean this up

let's make this fucking work

let's do our goddamn jobs

and not waste a fucking moment worrying about whether or not we care

THIS IS MY JOB

staring ahead

with paper

in my veins

i slowly drink

each word

you say

like a

terrible

medicine

is this

supposed to

make me

better?

maybe

this is the

best thing

that ever

happened

because of this poem

maybe i won't cry about this

because of

this poem

in the back of my throat, there lies...

it's hard to explain

why

i need this

but

i need this

when every little thing

seems impossible, improbable,

i find myself here

wishing i wasn't

here

knowing

this is where i belong, near a

blank lined page,

with nothing but my kneecaps

to support me

nothing to hold the paper,

i shiver here in the dark hole

i am not a child

but i still want you to hold me like the day i was born

bones of our fathers

bones are bones my friend
and you won't find flags
in a million years
in the fossil record

act 2, scene 3

"Shirtless, sheetless and sleepless
on the edge
of your queen-sized bed, Last night
I didn't wanna move you,
You said I'd be the one you remember as self-obsessed

every fucking word that I tell you is self-addressed

Sure you saw me naked but I never took my make-up off,
You don't need me, And plus my eyeballs occupy the sockets like a half-dead doll,
So maybe you could kill me off in one of your songs?

Cause I'm not thrilled about anything, anything at all..."

resist

resist?

you want me to stop this

madness, wipe out these

bold eccentrics i

cherish?

not knowing whether to cross the line

i straddle it

to put a bit of

character in it

suck it up?

you want me to suck this up

as if it were a bowl of yesterday's soup

well i'll tell you what

i can't help but feel

i can't help but try and stay numb

so don't tell me i can't touch that

or that i can't hold onto this

because i'll prove you wrong as long as the veins flow through my

wrist

resist?

you wish

the damn cookie crumbles

i am completely useless right now. i am basically a worthless piece of shit, except even a piece of shit serves some purpose. what am i doing right now? i'm not doing my homework, because i can't. i just fucking can't. every time i try my head explodes and i'm pretty sure all my happy cells are slowly dying off as i sit here in the school library, the last place i want to be.

get me the hell out of here.

get me the HELL out of here.

I NEED to get out of here.

if i don't leave, something else will. some part of me will.

can you make me quiver?

maybe they'll leave you alone

teenagers scare the shit outta me, cause every day i see a new one crawl down the ladder and into some deep- but surely profound- darkness.

their hands don't shake from sympathy, they don't even smirk in apathy it's a pale unhappy scent, like a prostitute who reads Nietzche but can't understand.

yeah that's the kind of scalding breath of ecstasy i watch for, a crumpled body reading about why everything is equal to nothing, living dead by my front door,

washed out faces, dirty places, no one needs anything from you anymore.

PSEO start of an essay

Sitting down and asking, "Who do I want to be?" had usually never been a very difficult question. Of course, I wanted to be a lawyer. Both my parents were lawyers. It makes sense that I should be one too, I'm surely gifted in that respect. Then, throughout a process in which I needed several years to grasp the concept, I realized that the transcendentalist within me was crying out at the notion of law school wiping out my creative writing talents and forcing me into 9-5 slavery. The first step in asking myself what I really needed to become was counting the times in your life when I felt truly self-worthy. Perhaps for you it was when you recieved a foster child's photo and realized that your help was making that person stronger. Or maybe it was when, after months of practice, your fifth grade teacher congratulated you on your exemplary multiplication skills. Yes, both of these have happened to me, but the final question, and answer, is what do I want to be? A writer.

It feels kind of self-deprecating to write about why I want to be a writer, because I'm trying to explain what I think I do best with the thing I believe I do best. Frankly, that leaves a lot of room for pompousity to set in if I allowed it to. But I'm not going to say I'm the greatest poet since Charles Bukowski, because that leaves me in a horrible position to have to live up to that, and deal with the fact that I propounded myself as greater than I really am. Being humble is no virtue in my eyes- to some degree it's even more ostentatious than the alternative. I can recall plenty of times where people would have you think they were selfless and caring, only to reveal later on that they only acted this way because they wanted the sweet reputation of being this way so they might lord it over you, feeling superior. Anyways, although I can say I'm a better writer than your average American angst ridden teenager, that's not much of an accomplishment to throw in peoples' faces.

dammit

sometimes i mix up my words.

and then i feel like a failure.

and then i want to punch someone in the ovaries. then i would succeed in life.

moby dicks

books
surrounded by books
and here are the pounding heartbeats
of students marching
away
they melt off the windshield like
frozen snow, they
curse, they complain,
but they all just... go...

in the end, i wait
wait for my escape

crushed by the bulging masses