The Fifth Year Is The Hardest

"Five years ago feels like yesterday,"I said with a bittersweet smile enshrouding my eyes, covering my face with glistening sparkles of light. I would like very much to take every pair of reflective sunglasses from the clearance rack at my neighborhood wal-mart because I sure as hell can't seem to keep anybody out but I guess that's poetry. I guess that's poetry that runs through my veins, my life blood, you keep my heart beating
thump thump
thump thump
I guess that's poetry when your brain rambles so fast you mistake pillow for marshmallow so I'll take some creative license. I guess it's poetry the scrawled lines of misshapen pleas written in bold, black paint
Why will it never dry?
I guess that five years ago was poetry when we talked on the phone for hours, well actually it was sobbing, but when words fail to speak raw emotion does, I know better than anybody:
It's the moon that does the dancing, and
tears? Well they are just waterfalls from inside of our souls.
Five years ago you had a beautiful soul and now all I see when I search your name are birthdays and anniversaries and births but never that one thing that meant the most to me five years ago, my five year old poem of death.
Five years ago is the reason black paint is always in short supply in my house. I still remember when mom walked into my room, saw me with a paintbrush and said, You've killed the walls.
Five years ago felt more like a bird so I said, The walls killed me.

Five years ago killed me not you. Not you. I saw the walls close in, so I busted down the flimsy stone and strong glass with words and thoughts and a stroke of black paint did it. It did it like you held her in your lap  and taught her how to count. Patiently, quietly, but with a determination of a few thousand birds,

flying south for the winter.

Five years ago, I come back home.

Whisper of a Soul

A whisper scrapes my cheek,

a whisper of the night,

a whisper of a sunrise,

of pink, blue, white.

“Nice to see you,

            who are you?”

I don’t wear a nametag, for

what good would that

do?

it would become covered in Drops

of Moonlight and

Dust of Daylight that

would fade the lines, blur the ink, make me illegible,

And untrue.

These Drops of Moonlight and

Drops of Daylight, they sprinkle:

adding a glimmer to my soul.

I’ll smile, I’ll laugh,

I’ll do a little dance,

(the nobody-is-watching dance,)

I’m proud to play my role.

As I walk among the Night

things, crickets fill my ears with,

their sad song, their love song,

their all-night-every-night

kind of song:

reminding me they’re near.

The Music ignites an ember,

the ember ignites the flames.

soon enough my

entire body

sways with symphonies in my veins.

The colors fill my brain with the

universe's story,

I close my eyes, open my

mind,

take Life’s inventory.

And the Morning, it

becomes,

as all Nights must.

So begins the day, the

daylight dust.

It’s not the dirty dust, the

kind of cough and sneeze,

it’s the kind of glitter made to make

you wonder and wander the paths of your mind.

Never does it displease.

So I stand underneath the

sun when a

curious sound I hear,

it’s a gentle HUM, a soothing

HUM,

the kind of Music of

which flowers appear.

The HUM could only mean

one thing:

the universe is alive, entwined.

The thoughts of mine,

thoughts of yours,

this hum will cause the bind.

Paint a canvas in more than black sharpie, and when you run out of space, cover your bedroom walls with the Music of crickets and colors of voices, Dust of the sun, Drops of the moon, the way a HUM looks, and when you have finished,

Write on your heart.

I think you’ll find,

you and me,

we play a very

similar part. 

Fall Out Of Bed With One Shoe On.

A smile is just a smile
unless there's a reason behind it
and a reason is just a reason
unless there's a meaning behind it
and a meaning is just a meaning
unless there's a person behind it
and a person's just a person
unless there's a mirror behind them
and a mirror is just a mirror
unless you can see your heart in it
and your heart is just a heart
unless somebody else takes care of it.

Piano Solos

Trace the lines of my face in
pastel and pink
for I can't do it on my own and
trace my tears with drops of Neptune
for the ice in my heart has shown and
although my feet plant on this Earth
my head is high,
high where the wind blown.

Above the trees and above the birds,
my heart does soar
not even you could take me out this door,
this door of color, of light and sound,
I don't have money but not am I poor.

For I have you,
this is simple and true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
you bring it out in me,
you do.
you do.

(It's a last resort to prevent my heart from exploding something needs to get out and reach the air and my fingers can't type fast enough to make up for the vast emptiness in my head except for the three little words that start with a 143.)

#8

As I stand outside under the crisp fall air it fills me 

with a 

longing and regret for things

I don't know and people

I can't see;

the moon so large it casts a perfect

round shadow

(let your beautiful shadow engulf me)

More commonly I lie in my room,

the air so stuffy it suffocates me

with a longing and regret for things

I don't know and people 

I can't see;

the glow in the dark stars shining 

down 

(trace indigo across my face)

Shout at the sea with more of a beautiful ramble 

than anything else

and don't let the fisherman come home without a 

touch of potpori because everybody knows that

if you're not part of the problem,

maybe you're my solution.

Play a symphony in my love.

Self-Induced Therapy

I want to scream at the computer how you're not just 25 words, not just some sentences on a sheet of paper, not just a face in the crowd, or a grave stone that will ultimately get weathered away and worn down so nobody can even see your name anymore. Nobody will ever know who you were or how amazing you were, HOW DARE THEY MAKE YOU 25 WORDS. Please, somebody tell me how this is fair. Only the good die, why not somebody else? Why not an evil, dark, person who can't love? Why not somebody who lives their life for their own benefit? Why?

Sing to me a ballad of tears, weave me a sweater of sorrow,
paint yourself into a rainbow and cover me
in colors so that maybe
I can pretend to smile and laugh
5 months is the hardest part because
people start to forget,
memories start to change,
people start to forget
don't let me forget.

Existed

I can google your name
and it's like you never even existed.
"First 25 of 166 words" is all it says in the place I used to visit everyday.

It's like you never existed.

I can look at a photograph of you dancing in the ocean
and it's like you never even existed.
The edges are torn and yellowed, fingerprint-scared, and forgotten.

It's like you never existed.

I can look into my mind and hear your voice and smell your house and taste your soups,
but I can't touch your face,
It's like you never even existed;
my mind is playing games with my heart
because you always, always,
always
existed.

#7

Free me like the strong ocean tides
breaking through
the levees of New Orleans
and
Free me like a love song
breaking through
the chains of My Heart
and
Free me like the artist's pen
breaking through
the walls that flat canvas impose.

love letter.

He said,
(you're) a moon rock in my asteroid field, stardust inside my wand.
I said,
listen here, wave-breaker. I'm not amazing as moon rock or fragile as a speck of dust but thanks for (the) compliment I guess.
I'm not either of those things and that's just because, if I could be anything, I would be coal and if I had to name a million reasons why, YOU would be (best) at the top.

If I could be any(thing), I'd want to be your coal.

I'm not asking for much
but a couple of lumps and bumps upon the surface and some powder
on my surface that sticks; I want to taint your hands with black. I want it to
seep
under your fingernails and I want to
bury
my way into the caverns of your heart.
To make myself a home in there is all I seek; to
just
curl
up there and stay the night or two or three, or maybe
seventeen
because (that's) one of my favorite numbers.
But he already knew that by now.

I wouldn't hurt you if you
let me
have a little
place, a little corner of your
universe
to myself. I can sit quietly if that is what
you
please, I'll cry with
you (ever)ryday
if that's what
you
need, and I'll always be there because somebody up there knows
you're all I see.

It will take a little bit, but I think that after a while,
maybe,
possibly,
after
twenty-one
or
so
days,
I would reemerge from the depths of your
soul
to find that all that's (happened)
is that I appear
no different
to the rest of the world than I ever was before.
Still just a lump of grimy old coal off (to) go
soil your clothing
again whenever you get close, so
god forbid it. don't talk.

In the one moment where he pushes my hair from my eyes
and looks at me like I'm the freaking reason the Earth is still in
orbit,
there's something else in his eyes that tells (me) he sees what everybody else struggles to
glimpse.
"You're a diamond pulled from moon rock, the reason my stardust exists(,)" his lips whisper to mine.






So take Me into your unIverse, take me and never let me go; I've searCHed waited too long for flowers to grow Around my feet. Intertwine your supernova arms around mine and for thE first time I don't care if I don't shine to anybody else here in the whole fucking worLd.

#6

I sit beside my window with the

door to my heart opened up just enough to feel

the cool night air tangle my hair and the crickets

weave symphonies in my veins.

Well the rain splashes on the porch outside

and it mixes with imaginary footsteps of one very real person.

As he walks across the grey pavement he thinks he's just walking

but really he's dancing.

He talks and all I see is a canvas of color erupting from

a place deep inside his soul, but he just thinks he's speaking.

He's

taking what was grey and blue and turning it to glitter.

All that glitters may not ever be gold, oh I know.

They all tell me that I'm being stupid and I'm being silly

and once again I am going to rip my pants in two searching the

ground for an answer.

They tell me to lock up and throw away the key because

this boy is danger.

I won't.

(I don't think)

Lately my head, my heart, and my body have all become

separate entities; my head saying stop, my heart saying go, and my

body just half between the ground and the stratosphere.

I'm okay with that.

I've got him.

I can't lose him.

they didn't say it was going to be easy, but they said it would be worth it so hold me in your arms for a little while longer and whisper to me the things I already know, kiss me sweet and kiss me slow, he's taken my heart and now he's stealing the show.

Letting Go, Continued.

If you're out there somewhere, I hope the

wind is blowing and the trees are swaying as the

crickets sing and the sun shines designs on damp pavement.

I hope that you're walking barefoot, if you're out there

somewhere; you'd want to feel the pebbles between your

toes as you balance and dance away the ground.

I hope that wherever you are, if you're there, you

get up early enough to pick basil from your sweet garden

and watch the sunrise cross your face.

If you're out there somewhere, I hope the stars are

shining on your neck and the moonlight carries you across

the sky every night while you conduct a symphony in your veins.

I hope that if you're somewhere, you feel the cool

ocean lap across your feet and hear the waves crash in your

ears; I hope you get a little sea salt in your hair.

I hope that wherever you are, you're looking

at flowers more and looking at lightning the most. I hope

that spring comes after every single winter.

I hope you're smiling, wherever you are.

I hope it's a real smile because I saw too

many fake ones those last few months and

as much as it hurt all of us, it hurt you the most.

Wherever you are, I hope more than anything that

you know I love you. I hope you know that you're the reason for

everything I do.

I hope you know that while the sun still shines here,

it seems a little duller, but that may just be because you

needed a little piece of the sun to take with you.

The ocean is a little cooler, the sound it makes a little dimmer,

but that's okay because as long as you have a piece

for yourself, I am fine.

Sometimes I'm angry, angry at the world

angry at myself and

more embarrassingly, angry at you.

I pick fights with God, even though I know

it's completely possible I'm picking fights with myself.

Every night, I see a glimmer of hope because

I know as soon as my head hits the pillow,

it will be a short time until I see

your face in my memory.

Some days are harder, some days blissful as the

warm soup you used to make me that

day when you told me,

I was the reason for you.

I want to remember and I still

don't because the pain of that day is still

fresh in my mind but I know that my biggest

fear is forgetting.

I saw you not too long ago, I was rowing a boat.

I can remember that.

You were wearing your flowery, sparkly shirt and your

tan slacks. You were with Nick.

You said to me, as I gave up hope,

"Don't burn your bridges before you cross them,

you never know what's on the other side."

I pulled harder to that finish line than I ever had before,

maybe it was out of hope, maybe it was out of desperation

to talk to you.

I've never crossed a finish line laughing and

crying at the same time so maybe God

does exist in that small moment,

my watch stopped because you wanted me

to take pictures in my mind of that.

I'll remember. You need to remember too though:

Wherever you are, I hope you know I'm okay.

Well maybe.

But I try to be.

I'm okay.

I choke out the words everyday, but I promise,

I'll be okay.

I hope you are.

I love you, but I have to let go now.

You Gave Me Scars Because, Honestly, YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE. But, thanks for them.

Take my paper, ribbon, glued back together a billion fucking times heart and sure, why don't you rip it one more time? I went to the doctor yesterday and when she asked "any pains" I pointed to my chest. Instantly I was on a little metal gurney being rushed around the way bees buzz around a hive or the way little innocent ants scatter a hill. The lights whooshed over my face and surrounded by men in white lab coats they were yelling things like STAT and OXYGEN and then I was thrown around, like that hasn't happened before, mind you, on a cold table covered by some crinkly waxed paper and without warning they cut me open. I screamed in agony but in actuality it was pleasure because at least it was something other than what I have been feeling for the past 36 hours. 36 hours. I heard them slice my skin, pry apart my bones with a deafening crack and the whole time all I thought was that the slice they made is nothing compared to the slice you made with your cruel words and intentions and that crack, that fucking wonderful crack, hurt less than the time that you kissed me in a stairwell and when I opened my eyes you were gone. The doctors finally made it through all the locks and steel doors and they found my heart there, barely beating, springing a leak or two. The room went silent, a pin dropped and I heard it mix with the hum of the machines and the beat of my heart. I let lose one single tear, something I haven't done in a while, and it didn't run down my cheek, it didn't mix with my lips. It sprung from my heart. I couldn't take it anymore, I closed my eyes. Too many people were staring at my naked chest torn open, too many secrets pouring out. And no way to stop. Just make it stop.

What they didn't see, is on the inside of all the scotch tape, ribbon, and glue is just a pinch of glitter. Just enough to give to one.

I woke up to find myself in a nice green room on a soft bed with a new, hand stroking my head and saw for the first time in my life that maybe having a heart that looks like it was made in a preschool art class isn't so bad after all.

#5

When you type into a little text box,

I heard you and

suddenly I knew that

the stars shine for you and

you're willing to give

a little glitter to me to

make my paper skin

more 3-D.