I have not been consitantly present on this site since 2008. Nerfighter fail.

(If I were in love...sigh)



You’re confusing and warm and your breath always smells of alcohol and stale pride

You live a blue-collar rendition of life, you boast jokingly about your scars

And when you pat me on the head and smile with knowing eyes

I think of height and age and distance, how I could count your miles on my fingertips

And how there will be so many more when you’ve left me for the world.



I’ve been with you out in the fields at night,

I… Continue

Isn't it quiet after a breakdown...?

I love it, like a morning after a snowstorm

But it's better

In this season I can see hope drying on the clotheslines from my window,

God that's beautiful, even as the sun bleaches it white

You're not quite there yet

But I feel like I can see you anyways

You would climb the poles, tear them down, and set them ablaze

You always said hope was for the weak

And I always laughed because you were the most hopeful person… Continue

And it's that damned smile that breaks my pace

I laugh a bitter storm from one cheek to the other

It's pretty for a scar, boundary breaking for an open wound

Like lightning across a sunflower field,

it's prettiest in the moment, but the end result...

That's the truth about my fears and your perfections.

I saw the world bearing its teeth the other day,

But today I walked by and patted its head and it smiled

But not like yours

Its smile told me I still… Continue

(Warning: Not my best work.)



“it’s cold”

I said, with my toes just barely dangling in the air.

I thought of how I could simply fall through and never come back, but it wasn’t really a possibility; only a thought.



I sat with my fishing pole in my hands;

It was still new, and made with bits and pieces of self-confidence.

I used it to catch fleeting glances off people in the streets, and draw out the truth between the letters that made up everyday… Continue

NOTE: My poems generally don't follow any normal format, so it doesn't rhyme and when I wrote it it wasn't even in verse...But hey, poetry is poetry.



I call it "Limbo"

when people ask me where I am.

buried in between train routes on a platform that never was; that's where I am.

and when people ask me who I am, I smile and tell them it's for them to decide.



I'm waiting for you, set to arrive on a train called "eureka"

with a book under your arm, and a… Continue