I'd give you my hand if you'd reach out and grab it.

He's so tired of this.
The kind of lipstick smeared off the corner of your mouth;
Stale taste of cigarettes and alcohol
Left over from someone you never loved
Tired.

He's so sick of this tiptoeing life,
Monotony creeping up like cancer.
Dirty secrets weighing him down like
Marbles in shallow pockets.

And she couldn't be more in love.

He's gridlocked.
Backed into a cold corner with
No exit in sight.
Late-night rendezvous and guilty sweat the
Only temporary escape.

She's thinking Jonathan, after her father.

I watch him break down.
Slapped on smiles and winking LCD girls his daily fix.
Each day at a time is just too much at once.
Cracking like water spilled on dry clay;
The pieces chip off silently.

Bridgette, for a girl.

He reeks of bad perfume that he knows she'll recognize
As unrecognizably not her own.
Her sweet scent of lillies contrasts the
Bright pink smeared on his collarbone.

She'll fall asleep waiting up for him.

He's so tired of this.
Soft patchouli kissing the hairs on his chest tired.

She sleeps better believing he loves her.

Nuværende humør: contemplative

If I had a field full of dandelions,
I would bring in all of the girls before me
That you stepped on.
All of the people
Who cared
And saw something that
Even you couldn't,
Wouldn't believe
About yourself.

And you would hear
A thousand whispers
From people left behind
On my trail of bread crumbs
And your broken dreams.

You tell yourself
That you're not going to
Wake from this nightmare.
Yet the dreamers are all
Holding your hands
Tight.

And all you want is to let go.

And in this field full of
Dandelions,
Where you crashed
Admist the yellow and
Tufts of cloudy white.
I collapse
And desperately ignore the tug of loneliness.
Because you'll never let yourself
Have me.

If I point out the clouds above,
You won't see
Behind the dimness
Of your closed eyes.
And you won't catch me
Because I'm already running.

And now
All I have is a field of stems.
And a sky full of whispy petals
That spin around me in a blur
Of lost wishes.

And I won't catch you,
Because you'll never stop running.
You'll never stop running from me.

Nothing I wish for will ever come true.

You're a waste of a wish.

Smiles lurking behind your broken masochism
Bread crumbs carelessly dropped amid your suicidal strolls
Will you lead me away from the glare in my reflection?
Take my hand and drag me past the
Stoic eyes of passersby;
Up through the field of wilting flowers and longing memories.
I watch your eyes glimmer, shining crescents shadowed inside.
Sweep up the bread crumbs that were
Pecked at by crows,
With their blank expression.
Ignore the frightful stain of memories
On your good sheets.
I can find my own way home.

An old man with sad eyes lights his pipe,

Staring at the waves crashing in (so gently.)

Nostalgia in every crevice and tear.

The smoke disappears, stolen by the salty ocean air.

I looked up at her with round brown eyes,

I thought the place smelled (like fire.)

She answered, "That's the scent of loss, the kiss of death,

Lingering for over fifty years."

I wonder if death is a good kisser.

I bet he tastes like an ashtray.

And suddenly, he's eighteen again.

Looking at the world as an oppurtunity (just for him.)

God, he was so young.

Those same waves crashing on the shore,

Undisturbed and unchanged , though half a century gone.

He holds his coat closed tight,

To protect himself (from the cold wind's fangs.)

Gray smoke rises and drifts away, unnoticed.

Put out your pipe, old friend,

and we'll walk towards the sea.

Nuværende humør: nostalgic

Swish your hair.
Blink your eyes.

Tick Tick Tick Tick.

Sit statuesque,
Image of perfection.

Swish, blink, swish.

The clock inside my
Head strikes
Fourteen.

Hushed whispers amidst
Rushed passion.

Modeled after dead bombshells.
So long, Fame has
Passed you by.

Invisible tears on
White tiles and
Spilled Cocoa on her
Dress.

Tilt your hat
Crooked.
Dark eyes empty.

Tock Tock Tock Tock.

Coffeeshop corners
Should never be spent
Alone.

Whispers and
Stolen glances.
Give that back.

Snap to it,
The sunday papers are lacking.

Gulping down your
Fear and innocence
Is easier with
Water,
States the Surgeon General.

Shaken, not stirred.

I say, I say,
That toaster looks
Marvelous in your bath,
Dahling.

Jack Frost grew
Fangs,
Watch your feet.
Reports the times.

Tick. Tick.

Peroxide and
Every man's heart are the
Secret Ingredients.

A very merry unbirthday,
Mr. President.
Kiss Kiss.

Too many quesitons,
Not enough answers.

Swish your hair, blink your eyes.
Smile for noone.

The distance from here to there,
Is like the distance from New York to Neverland.
The gap between you and me
Is three Grand Canyons,
Even when I'm lying next to you
Staring at the ceiling.
It's all been said and done,
It's all been lied about and faked.
You cop-out.

Wafting guitar riffs and broken poetry
Trying to block out the cigarette smoke and
Painful memories.
You're the only one left;
Spoiled to the death to stick near.

One day closer to infinity,
One day more that we're counting down the seconds
Until you burst.
Your questioning thoughts run amuck,
Leading to empty pill bottles and tattered truths.

How come,
You're so good at math equations and problems,
Yet you can't figure out
How much I care about you.
Maybe you need to get your head out of the oven.

What are you scared of that you haven't been close to already?

I grasped my camera tight in my hand,
My weapon.
With it, I am impervious to the world around me.
I observe my low-income-housing world, where the men washing their cars don’t understand my art, and the pumpkins rot with glee.
I capture the vicious dogs that bark at me with malice,
Brought up just like their owners.
They would kill me if they could only break through their fence of a barrier.
I taunt them.
I photograph lonely American flags, waving pitifully in the wind, all life drained from them. They have about as much pride as fading red white and blue can muster. They’re sopping wet, yet there hasn’t been rain in days.
I peer through their holes as if I’m a detective, tracing the bullet that killed them.
Beautiful yellow leaves are strewn about. I curiously walk towards the tree.
Their gorgeous quintessence of yellow is murdered with unsightly stains of blackness.
It eats the leaves alive, until they die under my shoe with a crunch.
I note a brighter flag that the last, still porous with gaping holes, right next to a satellite dish.
America, land of the TV
Discarded wrappers left from sneaky children on Halloween litter the streets; hidden in brown leaves.
I linger outside of his house, glaring at the conspicuous pumpkin flag.
I can practically feel memories of me swarming inside of the diminutive dwelling, buzzing around like insects, crowding a lonely boy’s head near bursting.
Heading towards my empty house with the blue shutters, I notice we’re the only ones without a flag.
At least we have cable.