Red Giant

My Anger
Consumes me
Destroys me
An explosion
Of a dying Sun.

He told me
My downs
would be spirals
into the deep
But my ups would
not be happiness
memories at least of smiles
I could keep.

No, he warned,
my ups would be
dangerous
sharpened steele
spikes
of roaring Rage.

And they are.

Stakes through my heart
spreading the hate
for myself
for everyone
for everthing.

Vlad the Impaler
Is my own mind
Impaling me
On my own
Poisoned Barbs
That I set in the ground
Around me
to Protect me
from the army
I thought was outside,

But now those spears
I thought would
keep the enemies at
bay
are inside me
Coming through my back
Killing me slowly.

Perpetual agony
Of suffocating on
my own aversion,

It turns out I was my
own worst enemy.

How long does it take
a Red Giant to become a
White Dwarf
and cool down
to die?

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I think I might love you

I think maybe
I might love you.
But I’m not sure.
I’ve been so hurt before
How do I even know
anymore?
Love is such a complicated
thing
So many emotions tied
Up in such a short word,
Love.

How can only four
letters contain
such a grand thing?

Has it been enough
time?
Do I know you
well enough?

Do you feel the same?

All these things
make it feel murky
and unsafe.

I do know you
make my heart
beat faster
and my smile
come easier
and you make
me feel happy
in  way I haven’t
felt in a very very long time.

You make me want to be better.
A better person,
a good person.
An altruistic person.

I guess if that is love,
Then maybe I do
have those feelings for
you.

But I just can’t be sure
I’ve been hurt
So many times before.

I’m so scared of being
Wrong again
I think I’d rather
Feel
Nothing.

But deep down,
deep deep down,
I think maybe,
Just maybe
I do.

I do love you.

Maybe.

Purloined Love Letter

“‘Just forget about the miracles, ya know, they don’t mean a thing.’
‘Everybody in camp can do that but me.’
‘Give yourself a break man.’
‘I’m dying to do one, just a small one, even if its stupid.’
‘Here’s the deal, as long as you want it so bad it’s not gonna happen. The only way it’s gonna work is if it doesn’t matter. Ya know what I’m sayin?’
‘I don’t know, I guess, I don’t know, it just doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘It will. It will.'” (Wristcutters)

Some things
Like love
(and miracles)
seem only to come
when it doesn’t matter anymore
when you’ve finally realized
they don’t mean a thing
in the grand scheme
of life

of the universe

they don’t mean a damn thing
seem to come when you’ve given up
on them
and moved on
stopped being so desperate to find
the things that life hides out
in the open
a purloined love letter.

It’s Not the End of the World Yet

Some wrongs you just can’t right,
Some darkness has no light,
Some horrors lack a silver lining,
Sometimes it’s shit not gold your mining.

But you have to find a way
to make your peace,
get through the day.

Because the sun will still set tonight
and still rise tomorrow.

Tin Again

My heart is breaking back into
the puzzle it was before.
Pieces that used to fit together,
just don’t anymore.

The things that used to make
it feel so bright,
have dimmed and darkened
in a sudden night.

Perhaps I am once more
just a man of tin.
Rusted in place,
frozen until I’m oiled again.

Must I travel
all the way to Oz,
to restore the heart
I’ve somehow lost?

This time I’ll do it
by myself, all alone.
Put back my own heart,
find my own way home.

I know you’re not Him

I know that.
I know you are not the same person.
I know that you are different people.

My head yells that you are you, not he.
But my heart whispers that my feelings,
my fears,
are the same.

I can’t help feeling the same
feeling of helpless
unsurity,
hopeless
insecurity.

When you say you feel sick,
you just can’t come around
I know you aren’t trying to be a dick,
I know you aren’t lying.

But I can’t help hearing his old lies
in your new truths
they sound so similar from the outside.

When you say you’re busy
I know that you really are.

But I can’t help feeling him
pulling away again,
in the distance between us,
everytime we get close.

I feel the same pains in my chest,
like a kick to the heart,
because I know he never wanted
to love me,
never wanted
to be with me,
never wanted
me.

And I’m terrified you don’t either.

Even though
I know you aren’t the same,
it still feels like history
is repeating.

You asked…

Me to describe what my “depression”
felt like
So you could Empathize
(You really mean Sympathize)

Well let me “describe” the feeling:

Like wanting to die
every
single
morning
(for 5 years straight)
as soon as you realize
you’ve woken again
from a pleasant dream
into the real nightmare.

Like wanting every car that passes
in the street
to swerve onto the sidewalk
to careen into your corpse
and obiliterate you
so you own no
guilt
only tragedy,
you think this
so that it becomes
a ritual prayer,
a mantra,
a habit.

(you still find yourself doing it
sometimes
when you walk
down the street in the
dark
but with less
hopeless
these days
more habit).

Like wishing you really had no loving
family to miss you
and maybe hate you a little,
or a lot.
(You always hated
to be hated.)

Like so many nights awake
listening to your own
self-hatred
and finding no redeeming reason for
self-help.

Like searching for any way
anything at all
to stop it all
stop everything
for as long as you
can.
just stop the voices even though
they’re you, you know.
and they really hate you
for all your
stupid
selfish
self-centered
shit
(and especially
all your self-indulgent
poetry.)

Like this black hole of a future
is opening up
in front of you
ready to eat you up
from your head to
your soles.
(from your heart
to your soul.)

Like this poem was never funny
and was instead uncomfortable
and real
so now they’ll just
brush it off and say
it’s just too emo
because they
don’t understand.
can’t understand.
can’t possibly understand.

what it’s like to
truly loath yourself
like that.

What caring person could?

Understand the want
(the need)
to exterminate
themselves
and be done with it.
(take care of the pest
situation so to speak.)

It’s not like you didn’t try
to feel less
pathetic
to improve
to make yourself
feel like a better person
with books and poetry
music and philanthropy.
But the penance doesn’t mean
you really forgive
or ever forget.

So you try to bury that shit.
Bury it deep.
As deep as you can.
Far deeper than the
fucking grave
you’re dying to be in.

You really can get used to anything.

So eventually comes the numbness,
and then it feels…

A fraction more fraudently funny,
now that the fountain of feelings
and emotions
and cares
and give-a-flying-fucks
is shut off
and nothing
is coming out.
(even for rolling donuts
and the moooooon.)

Like an abcess tooth thats been
numbed with novacaine.

The rotting wreck still resides,
but you just don’t feel it anymore.
(just won’t feel it anymore.)

And don’t care.
(Won’t care.)

Ahhh sweet apathy.

To protect yourself from the pain
you say.
(An apiod addiction?)

No happy, no sad.
No angry, no glad.
No playing the blues,
golds,
or rainbows.
Just nothing.
Sweet empty
liberating
nothing.

Now it would be time to swerve into that car.
(Swallow the pills and swig the vodka.)

But no, not yet.

Your apathy isn’t complete.

You still love them,
even through
the numbness
of the novocaine
and the faraway pain
of
your abcess tooth.

(You know real life has no
white suited
Tom Waits
and you used to like stars
and smiles.)

You try not to poke that tooth
with your taunting tongue.

You creep back from the edge,
and try not to look again.

Did that “describe” how it felt for you?

Dear E (Student of my Heart),

You called me once the teacher of your heart,
But you filled mine up too, every piece, every part.

I know right now you’re living in a nightmare,
And there is nothing I can do for you from here.

I don’t know how to wake you up, set you free,
Take back your life, open your eyes again and see.

I can never understand what it is you are going through,
But know my heart still breaks for every wrong that’s done to you.

I can’t make a rainbow appear amidst the clouds that surround you,
But I do know there are so many loving people still around you.

I’m so sorry if you felt abandoned, that I left you behind,
Maybe I should have stayed longer, made sure you were really doing fine.

But know I’ll never stop fighting for you, no matter the physical distance;
Please don’t let them break your beautiful spirit, stop your resistance.

And know, I couldn’t love you more if I’d been the one
to carry you under my own heart,
Because that’s where you’ve always been,
that’s where I carried you from the very start.

Life in the Dark Ages

The serfs are in the french fry fields
paying for their lord’s Italian
6 horse-power carriage
then cleaning his 4 bedroom
penthouse apartment
in the middle of
downtown Camelot
to pay for night classes
in knighthood
even thought they
can never be knighted
because, you know,
no noble blood.

Meanwhile, the “noble” knights are riding
and ravaging in the streets,
pillaging villages
to Protect and to Serve.
Such “noble” knights slaughtering serfs in the streets,
and the wellborne and the well-off
don’t
(won’t)
make a peep.

The hand of a serf is removed
for handling a simple joint,
while noble ladies carry oxycotin
unperturbed in their prada purses.

Then there is the truly terrifying tradition
of choosing the king for a day
by bean in baked good.

These are Dark Ages indeed.

Today’s tyrant disguised as
a dearly beloved despot wears
a golden pompadour crown
to match his golden toilet seat,
but still his Queen is sleeping with
Lancelot.

There are riots in the streets
whenever this Bean king speaks.

Where are the good Knights
ready to remove this
King John
and replace him with
another like
the Lionheart that
lead
before?

When will his mock monarchy end
and reality return to the realm
after this horrifying holiday hoax?

Souls are Dry Clean Only

I came in with
mud upon
my boots
the night before,
So today I mopped
and swept
and washed
the filthy floor.
That is what is
done with a
dirty
thing,
It is washed and
cleaned and
made new
again.
What’s to be
done with a
dirty
soul,
With muddy bootprints
upon its
whole?
How can one
mop and sweep
and wash
away,
The dirty deeds
for which
our mothers
pray?
Can tears of
real repentence
act as
holy water,
Soap and sud
penance for
the crimes
and sins that are?
Do not tell me to
confess my wrongs
to either the
priests or birds,
For filthy floors do
not become
clean again with
such simple words.