There's More Where That Came From.

Here comes the boom boom boom boom

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I don't even know why I'm still Blogging on here. I love it.
I Love writing and hoping someone will read it.
Read me.


Taste this on your soul.

Don't Judge a Poem By it's Length

It's 10:30, and it's cold.
tree's grow from the sky down.
into the cold, cold dirt.
securing its daily bread from the clouds,
and its roots digging deep underground
out of eyereach of the sun.
Searching secretly,
Searching for something the clouds don't offer.
Something even the birds won't chatter about.

It's 10:45, and it's dark.
the sidewalk is one long piece.
no risk of breaking mom's back.
It doesn't even curve.
THE NIGHT IS SO DARK,
your hand can't see your face right in front of it.
darkness so thick you can't blink.
you can't close your eyes
and tell yourself it's all fake.
This is real.

It's 10:59, and i am drifting.
if this were a dream,
I would be happy.
Walking aimlessly
I AM A ZOMBIE,
minus the dead part.
Or am I?
I hear a tear slide down my face,
like a lightning bolt strikes earth.
grass dies where I step
but with less enthusiasm.
Leaves Crunch under my heavy step,
but without the satisfaction

It's 11:00 and the street lamps just went out.
It's impossible but,
it's darker and colder than before.
I AM FACE DOWN IN THE GRASS.
only it's like razorblades now.
more dead than the zombie I may or may not be.
No more nonsense.
Time to give up.
Time to leave.

I guess I'll just lay here awhile.

and sleep.

It's 6:00, and I wake up.
It's cold and dark still,
but they're loose like,
big shoes.
the grass still hurts.
BUT I'M HEALING.
Like a lizard that loses it's tail.
I am getting up.
I'm standing now.

It's 6:15, and I smell birds chirping
I've been standing for awhile now.
I take a first step,
like a toddler,
and it hurts.
but it's the opposite direction as before.
AND IT IS GOOD PAIN.
the kind that hurts really bad.
then goes away really fast
like stubbing your toe.

It's 6:30, and it's not dark anymore.
The sun is singing off in the distance,
and the birds are singing back.
I'M WALKING ON A TRODDEN PATH NOW,
warmth seeping into me
like a new tea bag, freshly steeped.
I see fresh footprints.
in the same direction I am going.
And I see her in the distance.

It's 6:45, and my steps are confident
I walk a little faster than the girl,
I will catch up to her someday.
but there are flowers blooming,
and new smells wafting,
and there is light.
light inside of me.
that is also blooming.
The Sun looks down on me comfortably
like a stream in the shade.


AND I AM STRONG.

Real talks

he has funny little freckles on his nose that don't look all that great because they don't match his personality and because they aren't really noticeable. he tries to wear nice clothes with dark pointy shoes and skinny things because he just wants her to look at him. he wears these fake glasses to try and get people with real glasses to connect with him and start a conversation with him but he gets all flustered and admits they're fake. he once tried to find fake braces, but he had to settle with the glasses. tomorrow he'll try to fit in with three different crowds by the way he acts, the music he listens to in the morning, and the way he ties his shoes. he takes AP classes because one crowd he likes does. and he isn't very good at them. and he won't fit in because 1+2+3=4 so he can't be 1, 2, or 3. he's just a four. no one likes the number four. he sleeps with his shirt on, unlike the other better-bodied-boys his age because he is scared of his own family seeing him shirtless because there are no muscles there. he is scared of going swimming with friends, in fact he won't. unless he can wear a shirt. he is pretty good at making music, but there will always be some blond, or asian kid better than him, so he doesn't really try. he tries to write, and maybe he's good at it, but he'll never know. because no one will stop and listen, to his poetry that took him ages to actually finish because he can't quite ever finish anything significant he tries. he moves at a snail's pace, because he believes life should be enjoyed. he likes a girl that's in love with his worst enemy. he does not have his own standards, he lets the people he tries to be set his standards for him and he hates himself when he can't uphold them. he doesn't believe in love yet because he thinks you're not going to marry anyone you meet in highschool, unless you divorce and meet someone at a reunion. he will never be quite good enough for his life. or is circumstances. But he is in charge of his own life. And I'm sure I'll figure it out someday.

They had nothing to say to each other

They meant everything to each other

Blueprints

"Oops"

God; up there in the sky.(I think)
I know he's a busy man and all.
and I ain't got nothing on god.
it's just, why did he have to have wet hands while he was drawing me.
while I was just still a concept.

He was eating a burrito.
A big open-ended one,
the kind that drip out the bottom.

Well some of that dripped onto my blueprints.

Some sour cream (Godly sour cream) plopped right onto my legs
and smeared them up to my knees and called me nonathletic.

I was supposed to be a football star, you know.

My elbows got drowned into my shoulders,
ruining my to-be quarterback throwing arm
and everyone knows when your shoulder is as uncoordinated as your elbow.
well....
everyone knows...

God tried to lick up the lettuce and beans that fell onto my face.
now hair grows on my chin and my eyes are as beautiful as the inside of my ears.
I get chancres on my face instead of inside my mouth.
and their full of puss. And they're ugly. And they multiply if you touch them.
because there was a little mold on my blueprints
God left it out, unrefrigerated.

I was going to be a model, you know.

my tongue bled down into my stomach,
now i can't give speeches without getting butterflies.

I was supposed to be a senator, you know.

Some got in my eyes,
I need glasses first of all, not to mention the clouded judgement.

I was supposed to be Supreme Justice, you know.

Where my brain was
smudged in red greasy taco sauce
smudged down, down into my heart.
I guess that's why I've always thought with my heart and not my brain.
a little got into my hands too.
I think with my hands and wrists and heart.
Words flow from my heart
and out into my finger tips where they linger.
and sometimes disappear.

Fingers don't have a memory, you know.

My heart still thinks he is a brain.

Silly heart.

Silly God.

Paris is Burning

Enclosed in this letter there's a picture
Black and white for your refridgerator
Sticks and stones have made me smarter
It's words that cut me under my armor, they say