Hands

This is where they built the trees
inside
and growing roots through your feet
You told me they don't need watering
and my hands shook them dry
dusty
cracked
hard

My hands can't shake out
all your roots
in their need
to be planted
in the firmest soil
to turn you in
and still make you beautiful

My hands covered
in dirt
can't dig this hole
so deep to keep you stable
from blowing in the storm
but they bleed to try

Your roots have been exposed
to the air
without water
or soil
for so long
spilling from your body
and now these hands were forced
to build
a city
around you
with tall walls
and skyscrapers
A place for you to live
but never leave

or at least not without
the destruction of what
my hands have built
an awful city
to hide the truth
just because we know
you'd prefer it
to stay hidden
and rotting
refusing
the help of my hands
to plant you again
and let you grow

My hands have built what grows from your feet
to your mouth
and now they bleed again
in anticipation
to plant you deep
in a far corner of the woods
away from your polluted city
where we'll pray to hear you whisper again
in hope
and happiness
and love
and nothing else.

Or Because

There is evil inside you
and death
not forward or obvious
but creeping
through cheated lips
wanting
or waiting
to hurt someone
hurt him
or
rather me

Trapped and wishing
for discontinued voices
pseudo strong
and never letting on
because you
or
I
could eat the meat of her heart
if only to stay alive
for a few more
seconds
like when
a head is severed
to feel the pain

You are not here to save me
I am not so sweet
You are not here to save me
I am not so safe

Not healthy
or so destructive
to start
hating
before the injury
or assume
without direction
as the sun sets south
you are lost

Cliche and under appreciated
as a boy speaks
the words of a genius
or
once again
I speak
how I am not me
or drowning
in your scent
during
sweaty sex
with a ghost
or a drug
I haven't mentioned
your name to

I have not let you save me
assuming I might need it
because I am
a monster
man made in fear
due to other monsters

or because

You are not so sweet
You are not so safe
or
should I say I?

Lies like Pangaea

There is a back to everything
like what you sleep on
after attempts at disappearing
sick of hauls.

I've been sick for weeks
wishing you were
coughing up blood stained with my name.
But
forgotten and dead.

I don't want to hate
when I am never there
or
however
when you can't believe
the direction of the wind
blowing out the fire
and building walls
for
I think you are a liar.

New and used
in each night
like dark skin
impressed with foreign lips
and big eyes.

Sick sick sick
of pretending
to be an island
but I am
an island more like
Pangaea
wanting to be connected
together and whole.
No distance I can't run to
no oceans in between.

U.S.A. and Australia
parted and distant
at least not at war with each other
however far
so I cannot run
and I will not travel
because I am sick.

Two More

I was cleaning my room yesterday, preparing to move out and I found some old stuff I wrote. I think these two work well together. These were both probably written somewhere around 6 months to a year ago. It's late, I'm tired, but this is still happening. I'm keeping these in my back pocket to maybe look over and edit later but this is them right now. They didn't have titles until just now.


The Ground

I know I will keep
coming back to you
but I could never be the one
to pick you up and force a take off.
Because you've loved too many
before me.
And your heart's
all rusted and mine's all cracked.
Like plow trucks and pavement
always scrapping against each other.
It might be another six months
but I always know I'll see you
again.
Again when it gets cold.
Like the snow returning to the ground.
I'll be the snow
returning to the ground.
We both know I'll melt
away and leave you alone.
Just the sun to keep you warm.
I am not the sun. No, I am not the sun.







Crucified Couples

Everyone's always asking how we're doing
when they're passing out drinks.
But my girl spends her time in the bathroom
and on the ride home
she says the lights are too bright.

Everyone hates what shes become
but we can't stand everyone's expectations
and we won't pick them up,
like dog shit.

I got a degree but work for free.
I show respect for garbage men and construction workers.
Making something outta nothing.
My girl only likes me
because I pay her for the drinks
she brings me.
My friend's girls are having babies
they can't afford, because they always
gotta fuck when they're drunk.

Life's not a sitcom, it's an after school special.
It's so special because everyone dies.
Crucifixion, lies, addiction, highs, masked intention.

Advice

Everyone seems to have their own opinion about what I should do with my life. I haven't heard a solid one yet.

New Direction Continued

This is something that I literally just wrote.

Superficial

I remember when you talked and I decided I liked your hair.
I remember when you wore a lot of eye make-up and I thought it was sexy
so as you talked I stared into your eyes.
I remember when you wore new earrings
and as you talked I watched them dangle.
I remember when you wore that tight black dress
when we talked at the wedding.
I remember the way your teeth looked sweet
as you spoke to me.
I remember when I held your body
as you whispered into my ear.
I remember that low cut sweater
from when you yelled at me.
I remember the way you smelled
while you used your hands to talk to me.
I remember when we talked as we held hands
and I couldn't believe how soft your skin was.

I don't remember a word you said.







Just wrote this one too. No justice, train of thought, too many people considered here.


Halfway to Back Home

It’s when the eyes have you
crushed under bricks
and eating a load of shit that you don’t need
keep talking and wasting
telling yourself it’s all right
like everything you believe is just a rationalization
because you could burn for this
and that’s what these dreams are about
women or girls
dollars or cents
they’d think this is not the way
you were raised
but most would never speak
of all the words they know
you run by and by in your thoughts
feeling as if one might just crack the skin on your forehead
then pour out and you
can use it as ink
to write that letter you never finished
because she liked you more when you were like her
talking about yourself
and all your accomplishments
and what you’re going to become
status is her attraction
not some gloomy rejection from that paper
like caring for you could matter
send her away
packing
with her Italian boyfriend
and his cheap suites
fuck him
not like she does
but fuck him
and punch his mouth
until you can feel his teeth cut into
your fists
as they poke through from
his upper lip
then kiss him and her and say you love them
because you are always pathetically sorry after
any sort of destruction
however so happy they’re hurt
and let her know
the big city makes your hair stink honey
and I’m not buying you anything
or any word you say
I know I’m very pretty
but I didn’t have enough of what you wanted
or maybe I was too old

A New Direction

A friend told me a few times to stop using my blog just to write posts about bands and that maybe I should use it for something else too, maybe something a little more personal. So this is whats happening. At one time in my life I was writing a lot of shit (not shitty stuff, just stuff) and I stopped for a while because I just couldn't seem to connect or feel anything the way I wanted to, and you can't force yourself to write about something you think you are feeling. I think that's the worst, not feeling anything, I am really in to the ups and downs and when I couldn't feel these things everything was a monotonous joke.
Within the last few weeks the sky has opened up and devoured a lot of my thinking and I have been reading some of my old "poetry." I've also felt like writing again and I think some things are bound to pour out real soon. Mind you, this is just how I feel now: like everyone enjoys spending there time wanting to know how I think or feel and that I AM really important. I usually go back and forth on feeling like sharing my thoughts might matter, but now I feel like this is it, the final time when I just let it all out there and accept the fact that I am a great thinker and if some people don't see that then they can write it in their own shitty little notebook. Don't mind my mind.
Here is a new direction, two pieces each update, and updates more often.

Here is one I wrote my last year of college:

Skin

She says, “If not the sun
then let the rain drown you.”
Is there hope in drowning
when you can’t breath
in the first place?
Suffocated by anxiety, jealousy, frustration.
Is it lust?
Is it love?
Is it the passages your mother hopes to read?

None of these bring a showing of teeth;
Only once,
they fall out from bleeding gums and
Cracked, sore lips
full of cheat.
She attempts to strangle you
with influence
as she hints at death
from a split and poisoned tongue.
You boil over with self-hatred.

Turn it around.

Turn. IT. Around.

Bring the wolves home with you.
They claw down the door
and shatter windows
as they jump through
with snarling fangs, flowing strings of spit,
stomachs ready to devour your doubter.
Lead them to her hiding place.
Watch as they rip out her neck
and peel the skin fresh from her bones.

Is this your victory?
Mixed up in fur, blood, spit, and skin.
She will meet the man she’s hinted at so often.
You are not jealous, envious, or hateful.
You have graced death,
touched his leather cloak
made from the skin of lepers,
and loved him.




This is one I wrote about a year ago, when my cousin thought I was genius and asked for some of my writings.

Wreckage


Broken since birth is what they said.
Their sympathy is a cheap fix,
full of soft hands and moist eyes.

Many words have built the foundation,
only to see it crumble
under pressure from demanded perfection.

It's when the door is opened
and visitors take a look inside;
They see a presumed sturdy home
Weaker than they'd like to believe
A floor plan they can't understand,
unattractive decorations.

Attempts at repair become futile
A fear the tools will rust
if the truth rains down.
No one has been able to repair this for 24 years.





* These may have been posted in other areas before but this is the first time they are together here, and they begin our journey into my past/ present/ and future.