| The waiting makes me curious |
[Oct. 11th, 2006|02:13 am] |
I can count the cracks in the ceiling
long before I even open my eyes.
Brief ripples in a sea of eggshell white.
I count the cracks, eyes closed,
but this room is still unfamiliar.
My crumpled shirt drapes over, half-hiding,
your worn-in copy of Lolita.
The tireless glow of your clock
indicates it's eight-thirty.
I wonder when you'll be home from class.
Will you spend two hours,
fighting boredom and stale air,
with the professor who calls you by the wrong name,
while I double check the cracks.
Never more, never less,
but I'm still not convinced.
Or will you be out until the early evening,
the anxious sun falling back to earth,
while I try to pass the time wandering the streets below.
Long after the semester ends,
long after you've told me you've taken him back,
long after I write this missing you,
the cracks will still be there. |
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| Titles are like opinions |
[Oct. 11th, 2006|02:07 am] |
A dusty half-cracked pane
lets me hear the sound of traffic
somewhere near Broadway.
Little hand at the eight,
and no cup of coffee
could ever fix this
(not like I won't try).
A slight disturbance in my back pocket.
My guess it it isn't good news.
"All I have to say,"
the line interrupts me mid-sip,
"is you deserve,
to be miserable
the rest of your saf life."
I don't make a sound.
A sharp click greets
another long sip.
A dialtone,
I continue to sip.
Since when did I ever
get what I deserve. |
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| Apparently.... |
[Sep. 27th, 2006|11:02 pm] |
I have a livejournal.
Go figure. |
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| Kill me |
[Aug. 9th, 2006|02:21 am] |
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Commemorate the day you felt everything cave in. Disintegrating nothing into everything: heart, brain, lungs, pulse. Here is where we'd make our getaway if my head wasn't stuck so firmly in the clouds. There's a lot left in this, there's a lot left in me. "It was nice knowing you," well it was nice knowing me too. Surround. Expel. Breathe. One step at a time takes me one step farther from myself, so why not go two at a time. I never gave myself the head start I needed. All the days you thought you knew, and now you can't bring yourself to. God I hate when shit works out for the better, I'm always on the losing end. We're crawling around in the dark for a light we'll never find. I haven't slept in weeks. |
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| It's never making sense |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:11 pm] |
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Feeling the miles of matter that line your insides trying to escape to your outsides is a pretty perplexing way to find yourself at 10 in the morning. The overall absence of coordination mixed with the underlying uncertainty about if the places that are trying to rendez-vous with the spring air actually exist in the first place. Either way I can see the sin rising from the pavement. Awakened by some kind of primordial restitution to go out and cause complete havoc once mother nature hits that seventy-five degree mark. The ground was always too dignified for that kind of shit anyway. It is this sin that is spilling over into my very lungs, corrupting my organs and entrails into making a prison break. I'm "on the lamb" as it is and these mechanisms keeping me from death know they're entitled to a reward. I'm not worth much and the reward isn't too lucrative, but it's the glory they're after. Who knew a man could be turned in by his very blood and guts. That's something you want to read on the front page of the times, forget the stock market and the war. Maybe we'd start some kind of epidermal revolution. All from this decaying little suburb in New Jersey. To think, my mother said I'd never amount to anything. |
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| Love me knots |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:10 pm] |
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Praying that this churning in my stomach will produce more than it's normal qouta of knots for one evening. It's this feeling of falling out that needs to be conveyed in a very delicate manner. Only attempts to untangle those knots will help me reiterate my point in a proper and fitting fashion. Just the look of the word fashion makes me want to hang myself with a white belt or a straightening iron chord. Why don't you put a bandana in your back pocket for good measure as well? Couldn't hurt. Punk is already dead, who cares if you're beating a dead horse. Welcome to the glue factory. In the immortal game of kill or be killed, you've outgunned me at every step, but that's something I'm fairly comfortable with. It's my accomplishments I'm afraid of and my failures that I seem to surround myself with. Who cares if you've reached the sun if someone else has had 2 o'clock tea with the devil. Already sold out, might as well sell short. Inability to sum up anything. Oh those knots. Keeping your tongue as tied as your stomach, and preventing any sorty of logical mistake. Trust your gut, I trust it as far as I can rid myself of it. It was wrong before, and it'll be wrong again. You'll be wrong again. It's still never understanding, and us at the forefront. After all, it's a one of a kind person who can understand someone who falls asleep with a pen in their hand to write themselves out of their own dreams. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:09 pm] |
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Convincing myself you'll care and I'll write with more purpose. At this point I'll use anything as an excuse. A way in, a way out, or just down and out. We're the turner-kit to the bigger problem; while you're still blowing nicotine kisses at your pedestals. Who cares if they're empty or occupied as long as someone is getting fucked by the end of the night. A rose by any other name, and not all of us can be as sweet. Tableau rasa. No thanks, I couldn't handle another addiction, let alone afford it. When you're hooked on someone who barely cares if you're breathing it doesn't make too much sense to wake up in the morning. I blame you for making that feeling coordinate to reality. Our hearts: the only compasses we care to set our course to, and of course you're one of the headings. A scalpel, as you say I'm in need of dissection. I assure you this isn't as deep as you'll make it out to be. I'm still buried up to my hips, and you're still buried against my lips. You can't force someone to replace the shiver you get from the thought of that intimacy, but you'd call anything intimate that involves some kind of bodily interaction. Fuck everything you know about real life; the only moments that are real are when the pen touches paper. I don't feel clean. Pick me apart all you want, I'm already broken enough to be viewed without dissection. |
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| Loss for words |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:08 pm] |
The redundancy of intuition
and Mother Nature is still a whore.
Its blue skies as far as the I can see
but history seems to point to a downpour.
Everything always turns apeshit whenever
the two of us are left together for too long.
Okay..maybe not always, but 9 out of 10 times.
In a world of "I'm going to live forever,"
we'll all be pushing up daisies before we know it.
Wind bursts in and begins to question all parties involved
in a tone that would suggest an overly-strict parent or guardian.
In hindsight we're all as perfect and innocent as
I always make you out to be
(neither of us were ever very good liars).
The sleeping sickness the city brings with it
cut our heels whenever we tried to find a way out;
there was no way out, you were no way out.
The reality of how "in" I am right now makes
it incredibly difficult to find motivation to get
out of bed in the morning.
Even when we were inches apart we couldn't
be farther from one another.
Through it all, however, the seasons will still
trudge on their invisible path.
That whore Mother Nature.
Never failing to recognize her misanthropy
by stopping to gawk at all the great problems of the world.
Like:
baseball scores,
interim elections,
balding scalps before thirty.
In the scheme of things we seem insignificant,
but the great aspect of humanity
is the ability to ignore the firestorm around us
and worry about the most minute details if
left alone for longer then thirty seconds.
After all for one, and none for all,
or something like that. |
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| Homecoming |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:08 pm] |
In a sea of headlights
I'm trying to stay afloat.
Adrift and rusting in antiquity.
We shudder at the stop signs,
and gasp for breath in cotton coffins.
Writing lullabies for ourselves,
to save us from ourselves.
Sequestered among the "I'm all your's"
and the "if we only.."
Halfway past the breach
I can hear the crickets sing.
Spring has come and gone,
and all my love with it.
The phonelines are dead,
like you to me, it's no surprise.
I should have known.
I should have known. |
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| Karma |
[May. 29th, 2006|06:07 pm] |
Karma
You said
"You deserve
to be alone
for the rest of
your sad life."
I did not answer,
but I thought,
"I agree; however,
since when did
I ever get what I
deserved." |
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