fifty-two

my brother had a friend in high school
who, after they graduated,
disappeared
he went to school and never called anyone again
and nobody knows what he's up to

sometimes
i have dreams about leaving
and never looking back
and everyone i know will miss me and then forget
and i'll never let myself be a part of anything
and i'll never let anyone inside

what is it in me
that just wants to escape?
and all these desires that tell me
my proper state
is solitude?

i can't tell if it's fear
or something more
maybe it's because
i want to get away from
myself

fifty-one

i don't have anything to say
except that
i like you
much too much
and i wish there was something more
but that's it

fifty

it's funny: sometimes i come here to write
without anything in mind
and the words just start coming

it helps me to figure out what's going on
in my head
without even realizing it

i drew a picture today
a face, and one side is close to perfect
but the other is a little bit off
and it ruined the whole thing
how did god make us so magnificently symmetrical?
i wonder if it was easy, if he just waved a hand
and there we were
or if he crafted us, each and separately
and washed his hands between each one

i always thought that i love to create
because i was created

aw, jeez.
life is good.

forty-nine

i know, i said i'd take a break
but i saw this picture and i almost
started crying
it was my spot, at school
where i've gone so many times
to think and cry and just breathe that fucking air
and know that no matter what
i'm happy
and i couldn't help but write about it

i'm so sorry that i can't just be here
and it's so nice to have you around again
i missed you so much; i don't think you even realize
but it's all so bittersweet
because i want to stay and yet
i want to go
and it always comes back to
people versus place
time always wins

i want to count my blessings
believe me; i've tried
but these nights when i can't sleep
i can only think of everything i've left behind
and all that awaits when the leaves start to fall
i'm sorry that i can't just be satisfied
i'm sorry that you know it

but you should remember that i only write
when i'm alone
because when i'm with you
all of this disappears

forty-eight

"give it a week," she says,
"and don't you dare come back a moment before"
there are things inside of us
that need to hide
and everything alive comes all at once
there is still more i wish were dead

"it will stay if you don't leave,"
she says, spinning me,
pushing me through the doorway
"if you give too much
you can't get it back"
and i want it back
i want it back

it's every part that dissatisfies you
it's every moment of silent hoping
for something more
it's every dial tone exploding
and every disconnection
that tears us apart
in more ways than one

it's that line between
everything you thought i was
and everything i'm turning out to be

the line between
everything i think i am
and everything you've seen in me

and i'm sorry
that things aren't what you expected
but i'm not sorry
i'm not fucking sorry
i'll never be sorry
for what i am

forty-seven

petals leaving leaving leaving
as we drop and drift away
airplanes crashing smashing dashing
elbows ripped away to veins

all the ice is burning up
snowflakes glisten in the sun
while the treetops smile and sway
raindrops falling, one by one

rainsong sunsong windsong moon
all the secrets night and new
keep it cold and wet and nice
every moment has a price

take it grab it, fast and quick
little stays and little sticks
keep on jumping through the hoops
fire hailstorms fall in groups

gleaflet gilded, sappy storm
shining lowly on a form
rainbows, stone and bluest eyes
softly singing lullabyes

hanging pendulum of softest gold
drifting, swinging, stories told
back and forth and back we go
birds that fall and stones that throw

eighteen hundred faintest clouds
all and open, mouths in awe
caress the roughest part of earth
careening laughs of joy and mirth

orange skies of sweetest blue
i am me and you are you
eat the money, drink the gold
get it gone before you’re old

slipping slither
breath of night
wilt and wither
before the light
sighs and moans
and deep despair
gaping groans
that taint the air
heat it, fill it
suck it dry
crush it, kill it
don’t ask why

hair that splits and mouths that groan
sleeping sideways, all unknown
eighty eight to eighty five
all that grows is still alive
walking feet and shifting ground
beat it, shove it, pound for pound
eight and eight and eighty two
i wish you were more like you

forty-six

pulling twine and twisting sheets
lost in dreams that aren't quite real
bend to kiss and wake alone
life, it greets us in morning
with tearing tangibility
to rip us from sleep

still, your presence finds me here
every part of you that i can't touch
it's an abstracted memory now
a memory that tumbles its way into this
i face it, cold, like the mirror that shows too much
clawing, closing my eyes and
it remains

i dig deep into this subtle conciousness
bits of beauty falling in with all the rest
the tree, from a distance, sky and field
colors bleeding, formless, timeless,
worldless
cold sun, still wind, rain that falls and leaves no trace
everything you cannot feel
everything you're trying to touch
all the dreams you can't remember
upon waking

forty-five

ok, ok.
you're right.
i have a lot to be thankful for.
so,

thing i love:
my computer
good music
like cake and phish and dave matthews
and david gray!
i love good food
like moe's burritos and chocolate cake
i love good books
and milan kundera
and burt's bees chapstick

i love friends coming home
to see me
i love all of my incredible memories
and being able to work and make money
and writing poems

i love caring about people
and sending them presents
and being nice
and realizing that the world is
absolutely
incredibly
beautiful

i love it when my cat is nice to me
and that my brother is doing well enough to
buy his dream car
and i love that my dad is coming home today
and that my parents never got divorced
i love watauga college and all it's taught me
i love making fun of people
i love boone (of course)
i love chill hiphop music

i love phone calls from friends i haven't talked to
i love getting letters
i love my photographs
i love good pictures
i love ayn rand
and pencil sharpeners and water balloons
and friends that can have good, clean fun
and full change buckets
and calculators and dry erase boards

(Brick, are you just looking at things in the office
and saying that you love them?)

sorry, sometimes i get carried away.

i love

everything?

forty-four

read this
and worry about me.
go ahead, be my guest.

it's funny how i can't write in my journal anymore
how i have to post these inner dealings for
anyone to see
maybe everything i do is for
everyone else
look at me, i can't even write a whole sentence on
one line
because i'm so stuck on what i'm supposed to be

i can't even remember when i didn't care
my mother tells me i was never hurt by others
all the mean girls that told me just what they thought of me
and i never blinked

what happened?
i fight so hard for freedom
and the moment i'm alone
everything just crashes
and i can't think of any good metaphors
i'm tired of my life being a metaphor

because here's what's for real:
i'm miserable.

yeah, you said it,
but not about me
kicking and screaming, i'm fighting everyone i think i hate
when all they really are
are just better versions of me

i'm itching to get out into the world
to explore, to see it all, completely alone, sufficient
and i can't even kill a fucking bug
scampering defenselessly around my room.
in fact, i'll probably sleep on the couch tonight
just in case it comes to visit

i can't even complain anymore
without feeling guilty
and complaining about the fact that
i'm always complaining

my whole life has turned into this huge fucking catch 22
i hate everything
and i hate that i hate it
and i know it hates me right back