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.

walls.

and all these walls have tendencies.
they'll listen to every droplet that falls from your eyes,
and carefully count how many times they hit the ground you stand on.
they will absorb every conversation had, and take notice to how many times your voice cracks.
how often your tongue stumbled for words.
they'll hear everything you'll say,
as you search for the reasons to why you're here.

Day 17.

                                                                                    maybe i'll fall into the sky.

i'll forget that feeling that i forgot something.

the collapsed sensation under my scalp won't take over my day,

and i won't feel like my heart is falling.

i'll pay attention with pretty eyes,

and spend my time orbiting around the necessary bliss. 

i will think without pain one million times, and i wont control my passion. 

i will accept my faults and stare at winking stars.

i will shout at every atom, in their magnificent glow, and tell them that they are loved. 

"She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew."  - Jerry Spinelli.