life poems

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Mark Jefferson killed my fucking gay punk like what the fuck man I didn’t do shit to you I never trusted you from the beginning with your fucking hipster glasses and even David knew not to trust that fucking goatee of yours like what the fuck man just because I didn’t enter that photo for the everyday heroes contest like I know that you wanted alone time with Max (who doesn’t?) but seriously you freaking murderer gtfo I’ll use my gay time traveling powers so I can kill you over and fucking over again you piece of shit me and Chloe will stomp your fucking face out till you die then I’ll rewind and do it again and I will throw you into that fucking tornado you hipster asshole

the way you love me
without conditions,
without asking me to fit
inside any sort of box
just wanting to set free
all the tortured light
you feel in me.


the way you love me,
without hesitation,
always ready to join me
on this wild roller coaster
because beauty,
despite my crazy,
is all that you see.


the way you love me,
without any fears,
ready to swim
through my toxic tears,
just wanting to absorb
all of my pain
to soak up every stain.


it’s the way you love me,
the way you treat me,
see me
fight for me
dream of me
uplift me
speak to me
inspire me
write for me
look at me
wait for me
hold me
touch me
encourage me
accept me
and know me
all
in harmony.

I haven’t felt this feeling in so long. This longing to see someone’s face and to hear their voice speak my name. It’s scary but I’m in love with this feeling again.
Streams of Light; Distant From Anywhere

The heaviest of rocks
descend like concrete
arms at her sides; the
aftershocks of

avalanches. I heard the
sighs and watched your
eyes glow like the
moon through

branches—Lost in a forest
and shining like the
afterglow of the last
eclipse ever documented—

       You were monumented
in the mind of a man on
the verge of disappearing;

a tunnel void of sunlight, and
when the birds fled from my
shattering of shelter, the void
was all that remained.

        I kept you framed in
the echoes from whispered
goodbyes; that look in your
eyes was all that was left—

In sunlight there is
a subtle stillness, I’ve yet
to form words for.. The birds
sing songs I’ve begun

to memorize, as the geometry
divides and we pray for rain
like lost ancestry; searching for
meaning in our bluest of veins—

       The greenest blades of
grass sing the hymns of the
last season we will ever save,
for later, but just the same.

bone-black

Deep in a dream of blood and rain. There’s mud

on me, on the girl in the gingham dress


who swings the machete, who spits out blood,

who asks, “you’re with me til’ the end, yes?”


Yes, of course. I’m exhausted all the time,

but when I dream I’m no longer afraid.


The slick walls here ring us around. “None climb

out of here alive,” she says, and her blade


drips. I’ve wasted my life being awake.

At least in that pit someone had my back


and all the gore seemed somehow poetic,

aglow. There is no word worse than “daybreak.”


Getting thrust once more into this bone-black

world —  Why? Living in the moment is sick.