I used to believe in everything
until you walked into the room.
You stopped it all with a look.
Why do you hold souls like
the fireflies you caught in the hot
evening on your porch when you were five
all those summers ago?
Why do you close the heart you
wear on your sleeve and try
to convince them all you
wear it on your boot sole instead?
I see you and it hurts to.
I used to believe in love
until I saw you pummel
your own heart so far into
the pavement just so you couldn’t
feel the pain it caused you by it’s
Why do you still try to
outrun your shadow when
you know you never will?
Why do I still see you
digging graves for shattered
mirrors as if it was your own?
As if you’ve finally killed her:
the girl looking back?
I see you crumble alone and I
swear I crumble, too.
I used to believe in mortality
until I heard you sing,
and I swear Death himself takes
a break to sit and listen to
Are you still afraid of picking
flowers just so you wouldn’t “hurt”
them and so the bees would have
more to pollinate?
Do you still light a candle every night
and make a wish to the fairy figurines your father
bought you for your seventh birthday?
I see you running away but you can’t see the
trail of blooming forget-me-nots behind you.
I used to believe in religion
until I realized no god could create
something as delicate as you and let
Why do you pretend that you don’t exist?
Don’t you know wanting it enough won’t make it happen
like that old saying your mom used to tell you at age eleven?
Why do I catch glimpses of you wandering
where you swore you never would?
I see you and I won’t ever forget you.
I used to believe in dreams
until you woke me up from mine
with wind-chime whistling, even
the birds are jealous of.
Why do I still see you watching every one you see
with a platonic loving envy as if to say “I want
to be anyone but me,” ?
Why do you still play broken pianos? Is it to
match the sound to the people?
I see you fragile sapling girl,
and you’re breaking my heart.
My heart wanders dark street corners and
big willow trees and neon signs. The smell of new paper and
bottled ink. The feel of an old typewriter and a new idea. It wanders
Amsterdam, and New York City, and hotel rooms and in Marlboros
and alcohol and cabins in forests. In mint blue Volkswagen vans and
adventures meant for broken people who don’t belong in one place.
My mind wanders fresh cut relapse and pencil sharpener blades
and eyeliner and tears and insomniac mind-melding depression. In writing
that will never be good enough and concealed scars and happiness tucked
away in parts of brain tissue not often explored.
I scratch at my chest because I want to dig my bruising heart out of my
broken body and plant it in Central Park. Dripping and aching into
the sweet, New York soil.
MOTHERFUCKING FUCK FUCK FUV OIDNFVJKLNFSKVJNSKDGN
raise your hand if you like to sit around and read jake’s blog and cry
THE BEARDS THE BEARDS THE BEARDS ARE HERE
things that aren’t ok
- stalking band members to their houses
- claiming to be dating a band member
- posting band members phone numbers on the internet
- taking photos off a band members/friends/family personal facebook
- its actually really fucking sad that i have to make this list because some of you apparently have learned about boundaries and privacy yet
the ultimate disguise
why do they all cease to have arms.
and she has one gigantic blob boob.
I lay here goose-bumped and thirsty,
but not for a drink. (actually, maybe one or two)
But for the attention only you can give me.
My brain wanders back to a time that
you gave it, wrapped it in words I knew
you didn’t mean, but tricked myself
Now I watch as you kiss, publicize your
high school romance,
string feelings along and carry yourself
with the utmost grandeur.
[How I wish I could be her]
I hate myself for giving in to your smile
when I knew that I shouldn’t have.
I hate myself for believing for a second that
I was more to you than just another pair of tits,
I hate you for being so good at talking.
So good at using your wit, your pierced lips
in mesmerizing ways that give me the kind of
goosebumps only hormones bring.
I hate that I’ve actually allowed myself to write
crappy poetry about you, because this means that
you actually mean something to me. It means that
you’ve snaked your way into my dreams, where,
even when I’m not thinking about you, I am,
and no matter how much I want to repress
you from my every decision[,
Oh, you’ve got me good.