but not but really but

I'm not so good at telling you how I do feel it.
But I am so so good at feeling it.

I think perhaps I've always needed something to define me,
and my problem at the moment is that I feel nothing and no one I'm involved which is worth my entire existence compacted into it.

Perhaps I was supposed to have reached this conclusion eons ago.
Perhaps I'm progressing slow-like.

Okay then.

Living like I'm living like I'm living in rehab.

Relapse, relapse, relapse. 

Please show me how to convey my ideas.

I have so many many many. 

At first it was bare and ripe for the picking -

my chest was pulsating under your weight you

stripped my heart like an exotic dancer would: 

all eyes and no hands. 

After the initial grasp, the puff puff pass and the

smiles exchanged between our legsarmslimbs and the

time it took to be rid of the excess skin crowding us in, 

we breathed in sweet, sweet fumes of spring and said

things kept in our mouths, light like ecstasy but 

heavier than the average promise. 

But the hours it took to argue the hunger away made our

heads ache and eventually our jaws could clench no longer, 

our eyes could see no more of each other - just smoke and

rubbish clouding our way - it was lost,

whatever it was, it

was lost. 

Take it, please.

I can write love poetry when I'm not in love with you.

(The secret is to be in love with everyone else.)

a nefarious dead-pan glance and

all I can think about is how I have

your favorite book tucked away, safe, 

because I want an excuse for my 

trembling hands and the constant

chugging of my mind at times, the ever-

present headache that originates in 

my stomach. I am hosting a 

cavernous black hole there 

that spreads it's lips 

wider and 

wider 

and

w   i     d             e             r

every day that washes over, 

leaving me a little paler a little thinner a 

little hungrier than 

before

I am s

         i

          n

            k

              i

               n

                 g.

This is how I say 'I love you'

I'll realize that I'm not the only person on earth - little by little. 

I hope you know that

everytime our eyes meet it is
Anthony and Cleopatra,
it is ee cummings and his
dark-haired mistress, it is
every love affair that has ever been
lived again and 
again and
again

in those brief seconds 
when our eyes meet, in those
I can feel you 
looking for a reason
forever 
searching 
me

tell me when you find it, 
and let me hold it in my lips
for the next time
our eyes
meet

Don't hold me.

As much as I want a humidifier for this cold,
I want to breathe on my own.

That which would make you more than a dream isn't worth much, to me.

creeping along my hairline in
beads of sweat and in
my eyes, in the corners he
urges along tears, rides them, 

painting 

down


my 




cheeks,



then onto my neck, 
kissing my collar bone
and, in passing, 
tickles the freckles 
between my 
breasts. 

the little that's left of him fingers into 
streams on my belly that has 
been hungry for him - 



- he knows.

a visit from you always leaves me wanting

my food has begun to taste as 
I'm sure I've begun to
look:

grey
quiet
tired and
mean

yes or no and

I'm always looking, searching,
bending over and lurching forward.
I'm always moving while I sit, sitting
while I am standing and confused when
I know what it is you're saying.
 I haven't the time for games, the freedom for
fighting or the focus for everything else.
I take the time when I have none, I give
up all I asked for for something else and I
wish I could tell you what I mean.

only all the time

For as much I
don't
know,

and as much as I
want to
know,

and as much as I
wish I
hadn't
known,

when it turns out I
didn't
know

a thing,
all
along.

withheld

I'm not one for holding back.
The chase, the kill. The boredom.
It ends as quickly as it begins.
Don't chase me and I won't run.
Don't run from me, and I won't follow.
Don't hide and let me wander aimlessly,
hopelessly, and I'll be thankful.

oh yes,

oh

yes

work your way

into my arms, love,

work your way into

my hands, work 

your hands into

mine, love,
into

mine.

October 21st

18 years old and nowhere to go.

breathing

I'm so tired.
Tired of all of these people spouting advice at me and saying,
timetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimeTIME
"It takes time, you'll be okay"
"Time will lessen the blow"
"It hurts less with time"

I know that. I know I know. I've already felt the affects of time,
on this, and more things than this.

"I've been there"
"I know how you feel"

If you did, you wouldn't give me advice.
You would know that all I want is to forget
about him and to change, everything, around me
to not reflect all these memories and moments
and have my furniture shout at me, "WADE
WAS HERE"

I know you love me.
I love you for loving me.

But let it lie.
Please, let me
lie.

GOD

I have the worst timing in the world.

On criticism and my poetry:

When I write, I write what I feel and then stop when I don't feel anything anymore.
The feeling, being it's sneaky little self, creeps up my back and into the back of my skull
and again, I feel it and I write.

It's a cycle.
A cycle that I can't "work the knots out of" or "re-write" because I'm not happy with the result.
The point is, when something I write flows, it's due to the fact that my thoughts flow. When I write something that catches every now and then, and sticks to itself in a not-so-attractive manner, it's because my thoughts were jumbled and sticky.

Maybe when you write you plan out elaborate stories and plant themes and you rhyme and everything is just so. And I'm not, believe me, saying it's a bad thing. It's not by any means, a bad thing. When I feel just so, I write just so. Perhaps you are always just so.

I'm not complaining (even if in the slightest way, I actually am), I appreciate your criticism.
But I don't want to re-write something that I felt. Ever.

Thanks for sharing it with me.

"I think I know some stuff.

Drugs don't make it better for me

Not anyone.

Beer tastes good

but in small amounts

music makes me feel alive

lots of people

alive

food is wonderful

creatures of the planet are beautiful

they make food what it is.

I like thinking about things late at night.

alone

but I wish i could share my thoughts with someone else.

the person who is right for me, will sit next to me, and I will feel like I am alone,

when I am thinking

because that person will be such a part of me.

it will be the good alone feeling i like sometimes."

- JC

Big TALK

Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk

is all you ever did, sweetheart

talk and talk and talk

not once did you

think of what your words

were doing

to me

that you were

changing

me,

that I

believed

them.

--------------------------

I don't have myself

any

more

no strength
or energy to
write
this

any

more.

I can't

hate you.

I can't

love you.

I don't

have you to hate,

I don't

have you to love,

I don't
have you
at all

------------------------

I don't want this
I don't want
this

I don't want
all of
this


hurt.

the last time you told me I was pretty

I was wearing my striped blue button-up
and capris
my usual shoe and
dark blue socks

opening the door
smiling and
kissing your
big lips


I'll never feel

pretty
in
them

again.

now then and where?

I feel as if

maybe
as if

yes yes
as if

I need
to make
deci-
sive
deci-
sions

and re-
vise them

be
fore I
die
for

them.

over and ov-er

writing songs I
fill the
blanks of
you and
I

left behind, there,
and here you
see

I have
replaced you
and you have
obviously

replaced
me

no longer, please,
no longer

not until I can
grasp
you
again

not until I can
grasp
you





again.