Notes

…and so she took the hands of my demons and slow danced with them through the darkness, instead of running away like how everyone else did.

Whiskey
I drink to forget
As most people do
But whisky,
Boy does it hit me quick
And when it hits me
I lose the feeling in my legs
And the feeling in my heart
But not in my lips, love
But the whisky,
It leaves my lips longing.
Longing for anyone
To make them feel loved again


I never knew how painful it was to miss someone until the day I returned to my hometown and you were nowhere to be found.

Cold can slice and bite
Heat can burn and melt
But love
Love,
With its cold tingles as she smiles
With hot cheeks when you say her name
Love can decimate you.

You want to be like me? I want to be like you! You want to write like me? You can have it. I don’t want to cry anymore. I’m tired of writing. You say you want to become a poet? Take my place. I want to go back to those memories that you live in. You want this pain? You can have it. I don’t need it. You wrote poems to her and now, I do too. Is it a curse? Misfortune? A twisted fate? Did you come here to taste my agony? Did you come here to see yourself? You don’t want these poems. You’ve yet to know pain, my dear sweet boy.

words leak
from behind my eyes
to fill up emptiness,
but I can’t remember
if the world is empty
or just me

Small events that caused the calamity. One mistake that broke two hearts. A crack on the windshield allowed the ocean to break in. A small gasp frightens the soul. You saw a parallel and you grabbed it. A similarity of a lifetime, true friendship. Friends in many past lives. A person hidden behind a plastic smile, that’s who you are. That’s who we’ve become. A mist. A fog. Clouds. Smoke. Our past consumes our future. Devour it. I’ve had a few days of regretting too much and I’m sick of it. Have you? A poetic pen-pal is a kind relationship. You may feel like the clock stopped ticking, but you still must go on. The show must never stop. The pen must keep writing. The heart must keep beating. The trees will keep providing. The bees will continue pollinating. Aren’t you tired of waiting? We all have a big bad wolf story, you just never realized you also were the three little pigs. You have to blow the straws of your needle in a haystack away from your qualities. You have to blow the sticks that breaks your bones far from your home. You have to get new lungs to blow down bricks. Us. We. Them. They. We all have brick houses around our hearts. Around our smiles. You just have to be brave enough to blow it all up. Be it dynamite or thoughts of forgiveness. We all have a story, what’s yours?

Even a dozen of dead roses can be beautiful. Please let me know, why’d you let me go? Was the moon not full enough when we held hands? Were the sun rays burning your cheeks during that week of Spring? Even if I write a million poems, they’ll never soak up my fears. Tearing away pieces of my skin to write you love letters, but I’ll never fucking send them.

This is a poem
about pain
a sharp screw
turning slowly
in the fossil
of my skull
the jawbone
of an ass
who repeated
the dentist can wait
the dentist can wait
now snow falls
piling high overnight
and tomorrow
the city will be closed
and I will pay my procrastination
with fever
tears
and endless braying
to my pillows and walls.