Saturday, December 18, 2010

'Sorrow found me when I was young / Sorrow waited, Sorrow won'

'm not sure why I'm posting here. I doubt it'll get read.
I guess I'm just in a mood.


I sometimes feel /
Like, like, like /
I'm not good /
For you /
Like, like /
Not right /
For you /
Sometimes, I /
Feel like /
Like, like /
I'm getting to /
A point /
Where I'm no fun /
Anymore /
Sometimes, I /
Feel like /
Like, like /
My dreams are /
Too broken /
For you /
Like, like /
Only forty /
Hours and getting /
'Free' are my /
Dreams anymore /
And you /
You're my only /
Real /
Dream any /
More, you /
And this stupid /
Black, stringed /
Beast /
A month's rent /
Forgotten for /
A dream /
I used to dream /
I could write /
Now /
Now, all my /
Line /
Breaks /
Seem ran /
Dumb /
And it all seems so /
What? /
So what? /
So cliche. /
So. /
So, I'm still /
Writing /
Still /
Fighting /
Still dreaming of /
You /
And if my dreams /
Are broken /
Well /
Your dreams /
Are broken /
Too /
And I can /
Not /
Fix them without /
You /
And you /
Cannot /
Fix them without /
Me /
So me /
And you /
I guess we're stuck /
Together /
As long as /
You /
Want me /
I want you /

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Shitty Poetry

The birth of a new day
New pen on a new page
New work with no new wage
A new stage
For the same old actors
The same factors
Plowing us over like over-grown tractors
Poverty, lack-of-plenty
Selling for ten when
It's worth twenty
Because you need the ten
And you'd take a penny
When there's so many
Like you
Broken down
Beat down
To the ground
Bark like dogs
In a third-rate pound
Your in the lost
And found
'cause your money was
And never found
So turn around
Turn things around
Do your best
Don't make a mess
Before you hit the ground


Corner to
Corner, we
each spot
own, like
chess pieces -
Queen, King,
Queen -
Check, Checkmate
my heart


New England highways fly by
-your hand in mine
Your firework eyes
-strike the iron in my mind
-and set off sparks in my heart

Sunday, January 24, 2010

I Wanted To Write Something Here

I wanted to write something here
But realized, sorrowful, that I had
Nothing to write, nothing to say

And no one to read it.

I feel so strange tonight.

Thursday, January 7, 2010


It's absolutely absurd how frightened I get when I remember you. It scares me how I look for me in the reflections of your writing; I always find shards of what could be myself. I then find the obvious disconnect; the place where the could-have-been-me isn't me. It's horrifying how my heart races when I hear from you, or I see some silly little thing that reminds me of you. It's maddening how angry I get when I pass down Thayer street and remember it's one of your favorite places and wish I could've walked down it with you; hand-in-hand, natch. It's terrifying how I continue to pine for you in spite of obvious flaws; namely, that there's a damn red line of how much I'll ever mean to you. It's chilling how I know I'll never forget kissing you; my first, and the only one that's meant a damn thing to me so far (that shitty little bitch couldn't be as good as you on your worst day).

It makes my hairs stand on end when I remember you saying no one writes about you; because I did. And I do.

I'm not over you yet, and that scares me. But, in time, I will be.
And even when I'm over you, I'll still love you.

Azaleas, miss, and best wishes.


It's bizarre how cookies have fault-lines; chocolate-chip California and macadamias hidden beneath dough like undersea rifts. You bite into them, but where you bite isn't where they break; and it falls apart, leaving a trail of crumbles like the wake of some great destruction.

And that, friends, is how the cookie crumbles.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

A song, a poem, a whiny young man

Crimson Underground

It's a friday night, so turn down the lights
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-stained London, brutal claws flashing bright
In the Crimson Underground

Little old boxer got mutilated late last night
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-money, money's funny
In the Crimson Underground

Heh, draw some blood, yeah draw blood
In the Crimson Underground
Contender dreams with matted fur
In the, in the,
In the Crimson Underground
In the Crimson Underground

This is the kind of supermarket that ghosts live in.

This is the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in, bathed in early morning gospel-light
Sunday-morning gospel-light
Or born in Monday-morning rush-hour fights
For supremacy on the highway
First to the job
Or the scene of the crime
The plaza's empty as blue and white
Alike rush to their meaniality
As the age-old masses watch
Mindless unmindful descendents
From the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in

In other news, I think I've met a girl I really like and I hope things work out well with her. I'm very much anxious and excited to meet her sometime soon!

(I'm sure something terrible will happen and she'll hate me, though.).
"They say love is a risk / that you might always get hit out of nowhere / by some wave and end / up on your own."...

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Well, still, pretty good year

I feel... so old. So lonely and terrible and worthless.
I feel like one tiny snowflake out in July, somehow. I'm tired of watching all the guys I know meet girls, be happy, and just... be liked. Or loved. Or not alone.
I'm tired of being too weird or too ugly or too fat. I'm tired of the screaming and the names every other night. I'm tired of working far too much and still being treated like a good-for-nothing-slacker. I'm tired of not being wanted or appreciated.

Another year's gone by and not much is better.
Still, pretty good year.