at dawn

I realized this morning that I have said I'm sorry a hundred times more than I've ever said I love you.
That is no god-damned way to live. 

hours between

"I am a child afraid of the dark, and you are every midnight"

he thought about it, and tried to remember the last time he accomplished anything of value. before he became a coward, he read nietzsche and considered that every breath he took was valuable because it was for him. being selfish is quite underrated, he thought.

"I would kill the whole world if you asked for their heads"

she turned back toward him a bit, because the idea of death did strike her as somewhat exciting. but she knew that he didn't have the heart to kill anyone, except maybe her. being needed is only worthwhile when he can usually have anything he wants. this poor boy was always in need.

"I am worthless without your love"

the truth is a funny thing. knowing where we draw our power, our self-worth is important knowledge. like all learning it comes with consequences. and maybe it shouldn't be shared with everyone.


"I am the flat part of the razor
and you are the hours in between the shave"

the trick is to pace yourself for life. if you give away all your poetry when you're young, you'll be forced to try and win people over with unclear thoughts, no matter how profound. if they don't get it, what is the point? 

fakebook: table of contents

i'm a poser, not an indian
but i'm having visions just the same
i'm a pioneer, not a speaker
inventing my own rules for the game
last night was pitiful, not pathetic
no pathos was ever involved
this morning was typical, not tedious
as if the world has never revolved

my hands are shaking, i'm not stirred
i don't believe in hollywood endings
you could have called me, or said yes
but what's the use in our pretending?
i'm always drowning, a kind of gasping
though i never go in the sea
'cause I'm a poser, not a loser
and dying is just the end of living for me

always never nothing everything

there is a streak of desperation on the glass
left by the last breath of a dying soul
that never felt the power of a victory
or its deeply replenishing effects

the door is cold to the touch
and outside the sky is black in the absence of the moon
living things shiver from the cold
or whatever it is that keeps us wondering where we go

he is beyond the ubiquitous curiosity of death
shaped like the mountain by time, ragged, too
his vision is settled only on the one thing
that we all possess no matter what we tell ourselves

and by the time the light comes over the treetops
beginning a new day of promise for the living
the streak has been wiped clean by a jacketed arm
leaving no trace of the miserable tear