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snake

i am a snake, and i will slither underneath your door while you're asleep. 

and my tongue will capture the dreams taking place above your head.

and i may be green, but my blood runs red.

and my eyes are blacker than each bean you ate for supper.

And as I slither along your hard wood floor,  I am chilled. 

Your house is not as heated as the last one I was in.

But thats okay, because your dreams are far more interesting.

And although I will leave you in the winter time, I will send you letters from wherever I may be.

And you will return each note, sealed with a kiss from your red, red lips.

Redder than the sky when the sun is setting, over here.

faster than the speed of light.

and it's funny how the sun can drip its liquid so fucking fast.

faster than the speed of light
its droplets fall unto me
sinks into my scalp
hair growing longer, the sun is nutrition



its funny how the anguish of elevators being pulled up and down by limbs of trees, seem to never speak their mind.
because their attatched to wires.
and who ever is inside, cannot see the liquid falling.
falling faster than the speed of light.

waging wars within.

i Watched the day stir, and the night spin.

waging wars within, my head orbiting around what was so simple hours before.

but by now, it tears me apart.

the one thing i thought connected me between now and then.

i could count on it like oxygen, 

always there, never wandered to far. 

i could feel it when we lay miles apart.

and my insides reached, 

the canvas of my mind, so weak and tired of fighting, needed to be painted.

i looked into the eyes that never fooled me.

they didn't see what everyone else did.

and the mouth connected to those eyes told me sweet stories.

and i pulled pieces of each phrase apart,

i thought it was a different situation 

but as those eyes closed,i would watch the day stir.

feel the night spin, 

and i cannot see, even in the light.

but i have grounds for change.

it's in my blood, and my insides are reaching for the better.

my mind isn't being painted with chemicals.

natural thoughts. scared, but true.

i am me again. 

this reminded me of you,

i saw this picture, and it reminded me of my girlfriend.
for some reason, i thought of when we were in the Burton store in nyc,
waiting in line to pay for some something she bought.
my arms around her waist.
fingers interlocked with hers, inside of her pockets.
remember when we tried to find the subway?
and my eyes kept tearing?
remember how fast my heart was beating when you lied down next to me in my grandparents apartment.
remember those floating words?
i love her so much.

Hate Me, Blue October.

I’m sober now for 3 whole months, it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In a sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I’ll never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways, yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you


And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
‘Till I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hands
And then I fell down yelling, “Make it go away,” just make a smile
Come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered, “How can you do this to me?”

promise

the promise of my arms around your neck greets us just as a draped lei.
it is replaced with the way you say good morning, how it just rolls off your tongue.
and waits in the corner of our dark house,
to steal my thoughts.
it maps the constellation of scars and blemishes on your shins.
and invades the air, that was once so soft.

     i should most likely be on my way out,
     the flowers are dead,
      it's night time, and the air is soft again.

in the wine colored air.

i feel like telling you everything.

talking until my lips run dry.

'till all of the words are out of me, 

and in the wine colored air.

until they are not my problem, 

and i am free. 

monsters aren't in the closet.

take it all away,
i don't feel it anymore.
i've stopped looking for the monsters under my bed.
stopped peering in the closet hoping they wouldn't be.
because i've realized the monsters are inside of me.
and no map can direct me how to make it home,
we're alone.
with the monsters inside.

"I don’t think that I like you anymore. Well, I found new feelings at the feeling store, and I can’t find you at our kissing place, and I’m scared of those new pairs of eyes you have." 

- Animal Collective. 

tangible and flame proof

we are melting from the inside
i am in love with good things.
good, tangible things.
sticky hands grab us by the neck.
our fears spreading out.
climbing outside of us,
crawling up our spine.

it's the skin and bones that counts, anyway.
what else are we once everything else has melted away?
sometimes i feel like shit,
but at least i'm feeling.
other times i think my skin is the only part of me that can be touched.

and these fears are filling us up,
and digging into the pores of the skin on our backs.
their swelling.
giant swollen fears that climb each vertebrate like a staircase.
like spiders, their good things.
tangible and fame proof.

A Mountainous Defeat.

A mountainous defeat she had conquered.
one larger than her neighbors back yard.
he hung his own fabrics on the clothes line which was perched a few feet away from his back door.
and although living alone,
he felt so loved by every blade of grass under his hanging garments.
but as she watched him hang each shirt and stolen pair os socks,
staring at him as he clutched the sweater his wife used to wear,
smelling the fabric as it absorbed his anguish,
she realized that although living in a house full of other bodies whose stories were told under skies full of lightening bugs and in rooms cold with the stench of truth,
she felt so alone.
as if each beating heart sitting next to her at the dinner table didn't mean a thing.
the hands that passed her the salt and poured her glass of chardonnay,
weren't anything but invisible.
but with time,
rolling clocks, and numbers passing,
she slowly started taking notice to the smiles that were thrown at her while she so graciously taught her fingers to dance across black and white keys,
she saw the fingers that ran through her hair.
so influential, so thought provoking.
she saw them just as she saw him, her neighbor.
in his back yard, hanging his dead wife's sweater.
it finally came to her,
her mountainous defeat.

paper cranes.

hang me in a tree dear, i'd like to feel the wind.
but i cannot wait forever, don't take to long.
you said you were going to put a lasso around the sun and pull it down.
replace it with the glowing moon and kiss her gently beneath it.
but i cannot hang under the moon, for the wind does not blow at night.

that is the time where life is still,
and movement is few.

i wont be able to watch the people passing by me,
because they will be asleep under a ceiling of stars.

i know you wont admit this,
but i am just another paper crane.
sitting among the pile of previously folded friends.

we sit on your dresser,
and i see you hang notes for her in trees so strong,
on branches so thick,
beneath the sun.

won't you hang me, dear?
punch a small hole through my neck,
and pull through a strand of your thinnest string.
tie it next to your love notes to her.
double knot it, so i won't fly away.

but no worries, because if i do,
if i do so graciously fly free from your thread,
you will find me returning to you.

but before i do so,
i will land on her shoulder.
kiss her cheek,
beneath the moon.

i was rash.

i used to know myself so well.

convinced that the mouths which opened so wide were wrong.

every breath i breathed was honest, 

and my walk was strong.

i could hear my own thoughts, 

and was rash.

now nicotine based lungs, 

talking to the people i thought i knew.

dirty hands built walls inside of my head.

asked to be saved through something else.

i confuse myself with the thoughts my own conscious creates.

i stumble over the words my own tongue attempts to spit.

hello, good friend, i never knew myself, did you ? 

Scar tissue has no character. It’s not like skin. It doesn’t show age or illness or pallor or tan. It has no pores, no hair, no wrinkles. It’s like a slipcover. It shields and disguises what’s beneath. That’s why we grow it; we have something to hide. - girl interrupted. 

the deceiver.

his wire legs lay across the ground.
the earth eating him.
all he wanted was to breathe easy.

this is not the sound that she wanted to hear.
the dial tone wasn't enough company.
didn't provide her with the courage to press her fingers against the numbers.

he would've called, if his styrofoam eyes weren't blinded by the day's verity.

she would've told him,
if her ears could stand to listen to the voice that once said i love you.

blindsided by the figure laying in the middle of the day,
pedestrians mumbled condolences after hearing why.


shocked by her inability to stay true,
friends left her room quietly after hearing what happened.

she found another.
but didn't say a thing.
and for months, the truth of their love was only known by her, the deceiver.

so he laid himself down.
tried to breathe easy.

until now.

Until now, I never realized that people in mental institutions really do color and put jigsaw puzzles together.

the jealous soil and better men.

in a field i stand
idle and sweet.
the soil and i are an item.
but i tend to move
in times of anguish .
written down on sidewalks
are the numbers of better men.
idle i'll stand beneath the bridge.
sidewalks beneath the bridge and i.
the soil is jealous.
alone,
being poured on.
the better men will walk upon it.

the pleasure within.

your mouth is poison 

bask in each other.

whisper sweet nothing's to the gate keeper.

make love to stay clear from the cold.

that half of yesteryear where we didn't speak 

not even once.

it still happened.

seasons wait for the maid to give her nod of approval.

while pretending to know not a thing about the two,

who sought out each other's gratification.

it's okay, you're still young.

sipping ale while the preacher sneaks away to give words of wisdom to the young and confused.

bound to die some day.

convincing them they are loved more and more,

teenage hopes waiting on the screen in porch. 

kissed the gate keeper on the cheek.

sleepless cold nights.

x's where your feet should stand.

you don't mind though, 

because while the bottle of ale sits on the bed side table, 

your teenage hopes left the screen in porch.

crept beneath the door,

past the maid.

their cheeks flushed red.

watching you and him 

seek for the pleasure within.

get off the bus,
and walk the lines.
and if any one should ask,
even though they don't need to know what you're looking for,
tell them god just dropped by asking for some advice
and if they ask if he is searching for them,
tell them god isn't a he.
old, yes, but no gender relates to his existence.
tell them to take a hike
they don't need to know what you're doing or what you're looking for.
and if anyone should ask,
tell them god dropped by asking for some advice, he's searching for them and the bus stop is just around the corner.
follow the lines.

The thing is - Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you’ve held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

Day 20.

rather than thinking it's a new day.

i think it's just another.

i feel winter on the tips of each finger.

and i am being pulled, and everything else fades away.

it's too early to say good night.

i'm tied to everything said,

"sleep well."

no sleeping.

just drifting.

you have stolen my being.