Pass

Here. I will give you this book and this one pen so you can become the writer. So you can create on a one dimensional level of thinking so that others will understand. Not understand, but recognize. And it is you who will have told them. Your words, not mine.

the Liar

the Creator

the Translator

Loves Me Less

I used to carry such an obsessive urge to write. My mind raced relentlessly. Sentences would course with ease from my conscious like paper though a printer. Hot and ready for the willing. There was such a natural rhythm that should not have come that easily. It’s never easy, is it? But the words aren’t coming as swiftly as they once were. My life is a mindfuck, I hardly have the patience to sleep. I’m sick and then not. Bored and then overwhelmed. I need life fast and changing rapidly so I don’t get disinterested. So I guess I stay up and do things like this at three in the morning. I can’t keep a normal schedule. Honestly, I don’t want to. Sometimes I just want to watch the sunrise or go for a walk because it is night. I want to know if this sounds crazy or cliché. Perhaps my writing is taking a sabbatical. Perhaps I just need to force myself back into it. I want to know if I’ve lost my head. I want to know but I won’t.
Tell me why, remind me when.

NightLife

Lying in a field of cigarette butts, my hands are both tied. Must have been some crazy night or something of the kind. But the drinks don’t last forever and that’s perhaps just why I’d rather live dreams and then I can die.

And the dead grass sticks to my skin but there’s a beautiful sky. And the dirt coats my feet in October.
“Where are my shoes?” I ask the nearest guy. He’s got lipstick stains on his chest and his fists rub his eyes. Looks at me so strange for a reason I won’t remember. But our nights don’t last forever, like the cigarettes where we lie. And our thoughts wont replay November, but I can always try.
I’ve got a couple of bruises, I rub my thighs. The pain helps me remember. Call me what you will but I’d rather live this way than sleep through and die. Because the stars wont shine like this forever, and I want to lie awake with them every night.
There’s a field of faces I’ve never met, all sleeping. I walk from the edge of the water to the side of the road. “Hey, could I get a ride,” my hair’s in my eyes. This guy says okay.
My hair smells like cigarettes. I’m sitting next to this suit. He smells like lemonade and has midnight eyes. I smile inside but am silent, he asks me where we’re going, my lips move “by and by.”
That’s just how we live right, that’s how I get by. I’m not happy till I’m running away. He’s fixed on my eyes. “Well, do you need a place to stay.” So I don’t say goodbye.
Now the sun stays high through November and that’s perhaps just why I’d rather live fast while I breathe and then I can die.

Grapho

This is for all of those who drew on the classroom tables in high school with their dull Ticoderoga pencils of angst. Whose homework’s paper margins were exhausted with the scratchings of rebellion and love. Whose skin was marked with the caresses of pen’s red ink; and who was both envied and disfavored for this. Stop. Forget your math. Forget your scientific formulas, we know what love is! Love is written all over the our papers and it is drawn on our soft, proud skin. What is it you really need?

Graphomania

Playlist You

Every time I hear I remember, and when I listen I can’t forget. I can see the curve of your mouth as you talk, while I lounged back in my favorite worn chair. I look all around, I miss all the sounds. The ones of the city and those ones, just ours. And everyday, I’d wait for you, and everyday you’d play me a new song. Pulled music from the air like paper strings from my mind, which you read and then translated into music. You said that it made everything okay, and that we came from the ocean and were living the best parts of our land lives. I lied and said that I didn’t believe you.

And when I’m alone, I wonder if you’re alone. And I look at that drawing, on the face of my ceiling, in the marks from your razorblade I still keep.  

Walk with Me

Let’s go outside.

Let the walls close in
Can they cave my narrow mind?
I’ll let them veil my needless sighs
From tonight and so we,
Can play all through the night
And save sleep for the daylight
Can we wander along these streets?
And find the highest tree to climb?
Let’s go and throw some light
Off our balconies and,
Watch it burn the ground
And scratch our knees
The fire was alive for a lifetime
Then blew out by the wind
Into the dark of our eyes
Can we play games with our shadows?
And give them stories too
Just for the childish fun
And a good story to tell

Lately we only live at night

I can feel… the green of the trees and of soft rivers as they glide underneath my eyelids. I feel them grow. They scrape at me with rough and tangled branches, the river cooling the scratches. Trying to get out, just dying to be free.

I open my eyes and witness their release.

Trees soar through my eyes, brush my lashes violently and fill into landscapes. The ground roars and swallows me into some sort of abyss. It swallows me and I sink into a tomb.
I can still feel but no longer breathe. 

Desertification

The sun beats down in fiery billowed waves in the wasteland of my wasted days.

You can find me in the desert, brushing sand between my hands. I’m underneath the heat of a thick white sun that’s dissolving me and I forever melt upon this land. I walked for so dreary long; my feet are black and coarsely red. This wasteland lives inside my mind but it still burns the palms of my hands.