It's not the endI have months to see him.He's disappeared.But this is not the end,It's not good,neither it's sad.
boys dont cryand the waythat your handholds onto minefeels like the noose around my neck,i'm trying to hang myselfoff yourmarionettes.no - i'm not dead yet.but your thoughtsare bulletsand your words are gunsand when they shoot me in the headyou cure it with a band aidbecause you don't havea medical degree yet.your kisses have left meblack and bluewhile i still usethe mug you gave meas an ash tray.and i'm holding onto the lip stick stainson the dresserwearing them around my neckto hide how you tookmy breath away.
october. in the summer weran thoughfields of sunflowers andcigarette butts. we'd laughat the rustykids that played on oldradiators, cry because we were neverone of thegods."baby, there's us and there'sthem and idon't ever want to be one ofthem", you said to meas you threw a bottle out the window ofmy car. it hit the theground and i drove. i alwaysdrove, but i alwayswanted to be under the carinstead (but youknew that bythen).now you're lost ina notebook. i put you there becausei wanted to rememberthe best parts of you but nowall i can see is howyou left me here in the too-sunnyafternoon, full ofsuicidal thoughts anddepressive indentations. you went up tothe great lakes and istayed in hell.hope that it's stillsunny inSeattle, because it's stillpouring downhere.
brutal honestyHave you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I amand what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.S T O P and think for a second and say,who are y o u, are you happy with whatyou d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;but are they enough?Be h o n e s t.are you w h oyou want to be?O R are y o u,j u s t y o u ?False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you knowin the end h o n e s t y will feel like a numbing narcoticthat eases the a c h e and lets the gash become
my old friendthe warmth against your cold embracesettles my bones in for the long months.your beauty in the stoic days is unique;placid white trees of lace, glass drippingfrom the rooftops.i'm sorry i hated you so,please come back
...RealidadesÁngeles y RealidadesLas siluetas de los ángeles bailaban en la niebla,y aquellos niños reían entre esmeros, entre sueños,los miraban, los llamaban, corrían, corrían tras ellos,saltaban, jugaban, perseguían su alegría, vivían.En la lejanía, el fuego se alzaba y las cenizas regían,las cenizas de las letras llevadas por el viento.Crecían, tan de repente, se abrazaban, sonreían,dormían bajo el parpadeo de las luciérnagas,desnudos, en paz, entre flamas y formas,la pasión moría en el suspiro de la inocencia.Tan oscuras las sombras dibujadas en la distancia,las dudas, el porqué de no poder alcanzarlas.¿Por qué? Están tan cerca, ahí al frente,entre danzas confusas, en silencio, en negro.¡No! Ella gritaba, puedo verlos, aunque lejos,Él decía: solo son nuestras sombras, fue así siempre.Entre lágrimas, entre sus sombras y las del
envelopes under the bed, loneliness stand for dead(the crevices in the floor remind me of his smile.)i.when it's 2 AMin the morningand i'm sneaking back insideafter a long night of drinking cherry wineand reading sandman comicsunder your garagei try to become a featherbut the floor creaks anyways.(the helium filling my brother's birthday balloons remind me of his hands.)ii.my mom doesn't really approveof me sucking the air out ofaluminum balloons.but i like the waymy voice won't soundmine.it makes me feela little lesslike me.(his lips were the closet light at the new year's party.)iii.we were playingspin the bottlewith an empty heineken.i'm not much intothe weed scene.but that nighti reached the cloudsand when the spinnerlanded on meyou knew we'dbe doing pirouetteswith something other than our tongues.the closet was smalland smelled like soap.but the waythe lights flickeredcatching uslike honeycomb -tasted a lot betterthan the hangoverin the morning.(umbrellas felt a lot like his eyes.)iv.
Teenagers in a Wasteland. I've decided to cake the shadows under my eyes with contempt, filled to the rim of my eyelids. My armor is the moon stone earrings I slide into my earlobes and the one cuff, cause' I'm not that much of a rebel.Remembering that when I was little I used to wear two color socks, always.The left always came first.And in a sea of mindless faces that drift like puppets on broken strings I see them.We have called them poets, rebels without a cause, misfits.With heads up high and the darkest murder red tainting their lips.Forward, they strive. Constellations of dried tears on their cheeks, but those smiles, like the stream of light on a rainy day. Or for some, the starch lighting of desert summer storms, the heat palpitating from their body. Ridiculed to no end, they strive in humiliation and eat their regrets for breakfast. Downing them with their calming pills. May it be a cigarette, stow-ay on their lips, or a
Funny Little MenI am a coalesce of the darting goblins from the crisscrossing tangles of my aging,from the clown’s laugh which made me weep bitterly, to the old farmer’s cautionthat tasted for me my first lick of self-conscious toxin,I am an old figurehead with these faces costuming me head to footas much as I attempt to shatter this stream drinking me to ledge’s jump I cannot sufficientlyunhinge my brandisherwith every other mechanism of my force I made chance to pull the tapestry discordant waysfor moments those watching lost their sneerI jerked myself from that course and again into stony comprehensionThe twisting follower was gaining my steps again—I mirrored its struggleAs it regained a uniform I fell still beside itAnd finally the stream faced me ahead, we looked upon one another, I could not sufficientlyUnhinge my brandisher, so I dangled upon the trigger, and charged, hurling my own hand