styrofoam cup

here i am scribbling styrofoam poems
on the side of an iced tea cup.
sitting on a stool at the verge of noon
with my boots and my tie
i’m feelin’ alright.
got dirt under my boredom bitten nails
and verses under my arm
that make me think i’ll feel older the day i turn eighteen.
maybe i’ll win the lottery and finally put money in the bank
cause i’m all out of the cash i need to keep up my constant  consumption of caffeine
and fuel for my car has taken priority over fuel for my soul.
feel like i’ve been on empty for weeks
but all i need is some sun and chlorine.
i am solar powered
and aching for some intake.
my pale skin is proof of my energy deficiency
but it’s been raining for days.
the galaxies are tired of keeping us warm
because we never say thank you and we never say please
we just take the light and run
but i get the feeling that we’re more honest without the sun.
as if the threat of darkness
is the faucet refilling our cup of conscious.
so i’ll leave my styrofoam on the windowsill
hoping to catch some drops of gratitude
so in the morning i can take a sip and feel alright.
yeah, i’ll take a sip and let it rest on my tongue
like the memory of the lover i have yet to kiss
i’ll let it slide down my throat into my chest
where it can warm my heart.
and then i’ll feel alright.
and then i think i’ll feel alright.
but i’ll never learn the comfort of staying the same
because i can’t help but change every time i wake.
and i can’t bear to breath every time someone lies in the name of love.
as if it’s okay to cheat
as long as it’s out of the frame of belief
like it’s alright to hide their face at the bottom of a poetry laced styrofoam cup.

 

stranger

my best friend is a stranger
who i will probably never meet.
she’s a tom-boy beauty queen
with a moat around her heart
as deep as the deepest ocean volcano.
she’s just waiting to make her debut above the surface
and i am the carpenter,
assembling the draw bridge
so that one day
people may enter.

my best friend is a stranger.
i have yet to hear her voice
but there isn’t a day that goes by
when we do not converse.
we live within the spaces
on our keyboard
but we don’t bother with buttons like
backspace or delete
no, we just type
all we cannot speak

my best friend is a stranger.
the sweetest stranger i’ll never meet.

 

verses

i am a rough draft
trapped in a hardcover masterpiece.
i am grammatically incorrect
and i like it.
i think it shows sincerity.
my life is no stranger to fiction
however it is stranger than fiction.
reality can’t be found on television or in a book
no matter how you twist and turn it
it’s still just a story told from one perspective
with skewed intentions.
which is why i know my verses will never find perfection
until i can define every word in the dictionary
because i can’t know the best words to write
until all of webster and oxford are in my mind
so please try not to come up with an equation for all the verses of me
because the fight is not over, i haven’t gotten everything off my chest.
there is still much use for my pen
but if you must come up with answer, please do me a favor
and don’t round off the remainder
because my heart is somewhere in all that’s left over

yes i am a work in progress.
and i’m a mess i guess.
but i’ve been down this road before
so i already know that depression’s a bore
hence my persistent need to get out of bed every morning
and the unwavering vital requirement to get down on paper
all the thoughts in my head.
i hear Poerty speak to me like a schizophrenic hears God
in the middle of the night.
and i let Her take me wherever She likes
because i am just a humble servant,
i am a petty scribe
i write the verses of all She desires
at the best of my ability
and She supplies the melody.

yes, She is the songmaker.
locater of all the keys
and i am merely their keeper
keeping them clean.
only She knows the way to make them sing
the song to open the door to your heart.
i simply attempt to imamate Her
every night i try to write.

 

Vie For Me

I love watching tomorrow become today.
that moment where the clock strikes 12:01
because no matter how tired I am when I rub sleep from my eyes when the sun is up
at least I know that I was wide awake in the hours when the day arrived
but I greet every new day alone with the luminous glow of my computer screen
and in these silent beginnings I forget the difference between dreams and reality
and I would swear on the rest of my sanity that I saw the sky
hanging onto power lines for dear life
as if without a constant flow of electricity, it would lose its spark
but it was wilted still, hanging below the tops of the trees
it took all of me not to reach up and steal a piece
but who am I to be vying for a slice of the sky

I wish it were time for bed, I think I’d feel better than
but only 2 am brings the peace of mind I need to float off to sleep
and find myself washed up on the shores of a dream
where the water is made up of two parts happiness and one part oblivion
and the air is sweet as summer love
but I am the echo of a school night
calling myself home while the sun’s still up
shining a light on all the apologies i never spoke
and regrets turn on like street lights at the end of the day
illuminating the road ahead of me
like reminders of what not to do
but who am I to be vying for another second chance

and when I wake in the morning
I’m indifferent to mirrors
reflections never tell the truth
they just make blemishes harder to spot
my life is one long day-mare
interrupted only by dreams of a life I’ll never live
cause I’m a sinner by nature
and a default liar
I’m aching to come clean
shower in holy water and be reborn with a new layer of skin
so I can hide the scars of where I’ve been
but who am I to by vying for God’s good graces

 

Sunday

I woke up exhausted
in the middle of the afternoon
I missed the sunday morning sun
only to find a grey 12:38 pm
and my mind was full of wishes about calling off future events
because I feel my life being sucked down the halls of hospitals again
and my see sick eyes can’t bear to see anymore sickness
so I fill my morning with dreams of things like hope
which is still just a bottomless pit of possibilities, anticipation and forward motion
I’d wish for all this bull shit to be placed on my broad shoulders
I’d wish upon the moon in the daylight,
I’d wish upon a satellite at the edge of midnight
but I know it wouldn’t make a difference
so I imprison my wishes between my tongue and my teeth
and I thank God for sunday, day of rest
cause I can use a day without the rest of the world
I could use a day to digest all the news I’ve been fed
which is just as vulgar and just as poisoned with underlining meaning
as government mandate, as the lines I am spitting
my capacity for secrets is beyond belief these days
but the amount of Freudian slips that slide past my lips
is up seventy percent since december
because a silver lining is a breakable thread of truth
and cancer is an unforgiving, unwavering hell,
it’s God’s punishment for the brave
who wear scars like badges of dishonor
like how dare they have the audacity to want to live
like how dare we demand more life from him
but I want to know how the almighty sleeps at night
after he denies us the life of a friend
now I understand why he needs
sunday, sunday, day of rest
grant me the strength to get through this
for God is asleep today and you’re all I have left
just the final hours of calm before chaos picks back up
and is it alright that embarrassment got the best of me today
would it be okay if I hide my sin in the drawer next to my bed
and when I wake up in the morning will I like what I see
will God like what she sees when she down at me from the sky
or will the harsh light of monday make me look even smaller than I feel
and these days I feel smaller than the eye of a new born child
who can’t seem to make sense of all she is witnessing
a child who doesn’t have the enzymes to comprehend destruction
her mother’s womb was too warm and nourishing
to prepare her for the truth of the world
so she’ll grow up to be just as see sick as I am
and she will plant a wish every night to wake up
with the sun of sunday shining on her face.

 

Michelangelo

I took the long way home again
right after I tripped over my own words
when attempting to explain my footing
but I know I’m just setting up the pieces
for the same old game I always play
and I’m starting to realize that the only one who wins is my pen
for words surge when I’m lost somewhere between acknowledgement and disbelief
when I find that perfection is just a fantasy for those with o.c.d.
that destination is only a place for those who have somewhere to be
and diction is something for the people who know who they are,
those who can speak with conviction
and none of that is me,
not any more
none of this depraved indifference is who I ever wanted to be
but my personal compass has lost it’s sense of direction
and no longer points due north
it sends me somewhere damp, dark and dreary
and all the wrong turns are making my head ache with another new beginning
while my car radio is signing of goodbye
and my ears are ringing with all my lies
I can’t help but expose the fact that I’ve learned loneliness subsides only with cluttered time and a shot of redline
but if words be my catharsis than kisses are my crutch
because I often find my scrambled letters on someone else’s tongue
egg white with a hard core, a yoke encrusted day dream
about the focal point of my heart
because I just don’t know anymore
and all of my questioning has lead me to believe that I’ve been kidding myself for years
hiding behind my over confidence and quick wit
but I realize now more than ever that I’ve become a victim of the norm
I have denied everyone of the person I long to become
and the real fucked up thing is that I‘m still scared to admit my truth
I have no more cautiousness, no more integrity, no more self identify
I no longer know what it means to be living in my skin
I wear the scars of my past but I’ve forgotten where they began
fighting all temptations to remember their sting
I’ve come from the depths of the mighty inferno
arose like a flower in the crack of concrete
only to let my delicate state define me with the adverb: fragility
where I would have used my prudence and sensibility
I am now plagued with indecision and uncertainty
all because I’m faced with truth and sexuality
I’m hungry for the salt of the ocean, thirsty for some purity
I’m in pursuit for a warm breeze and a crack of sunlight
but I am nothing more than ink, blood and rubber
dressed in the bark of a tree
covered with the cryptic markings of the deranged
I am yours to uncover
like the distorted colors of The Creation of Adam
with our hands close to touching
but my secrets run deep in the ocean of my life
protected only by the subaquatic dark of my innards
under the blood bitten tongue of the young
with old souls and past lives only known by the subconscious
and I’ve been sober all my life
yet, I know all too well the black cloak
of things I’d rather not remember
but denial breaks my pen
so I’ve learned to quilt my memories together
and redefine beauty with the meaning of remorse
because currently I am chasing my tales through straight lies
that fall out of the parameters my heart
and falsehoods leave me flayed alongside old habits
that I wish I could break once and forever
never lasts
but all I want to do is find someone more like me
someone who understands
because my electronic confessional grants nothing other than an intangible truth
it’s like making love through music
it’s the greatest fuck without touching
resulting in an intellectual ejaculation of truth, spirit and heart
and only when my eyes roll to the back of my head
can I see the swayed line of my thunderstorm past existence
which will be followed by a rainbow rinsed future
where love and acceptance can coexist
a place where I can rise above history
into the clouds of ourstory, herstory , mystory
has a twist in events that no one saw coming out
from the binding of my book
whose words seemed so predictable and plot so ordinary
with a soundtrack so dull and boring
but from now on you’ll find me flying on the edge of a never ending symphony
with layers and layers of harmony
and all the phases and movements of me
only when you open up the cord can you learn
that this thing called living is in a major and a minor key
but this life has too many alternative opportunities
which is why I’ll be soaring on the edge of eternity
settling for nothing less than serenity
where lullabies sing worries to sleep
and truth gently rocks demons to dormancy
but these are all just the 2 am day dreams of a wannabe insomniac
who’s looking for something more than a wide jawed yawn to act as proof of her suffering
as she drops her hints and tests new waters
as she gives away days upon days to the fear of coming out