15

Ever since I was a kid
I've wanted things I couldn't touch
so my fingers are inexperienced
but my heart has always been
steel wool and tweed-
hard and soft, heavy and comfortable.

That's the way I've always lived.
I'm happy with the things I don't have
because they still belong
to my mind just as much
as they belong to the world
and other people's hearts and hands.

I've been reading this story for ages now
so please don't spoil the ending
until I've figured it out for myself.

Won't even Shine

I know you want me to go to sleep,
but this room is half dressed in shadows
and I'm not ready to let go
of consciousness for a black blanket
that will only stretch into morning.

Don't remind me that you're not here.
I know it's going to be a long night
when the stars won't even shine.

Burger King Floor

In exchange for some Orbit gum:

---

Last night was a whole lot of dark
filled with bright smiles
and too loud laughter
that made anything worthwhile.

Sometimes, I have a tendency to
say far too much
when I should say nothing at all,
so please ignore the words I scattered
on that Burger King floor
if you didn't like the way they sounded
all strung together.

Last night was a whole lot of fun
filled with scripted beauty
and a voice from the backseat
as we drove along,
three amigos in the nighttime.

Sometimes, I wonder who I would have been
if I had stuck to my decision
to bury myself in myself and give up
on nights like this.

Nights like this
are my salvation
when I forget how to laugh too loud.

Leave your gum under the table
so that the next unsuspecting customer
will know that we were young last night.

4:56 AM

this is one of my favorite things i have ever written.

i wrote it in august 2008.

---

Five o'clock in the morning: I am born.
Every word I see has double-meaning and
every idea is a chain reaction. Remembering
things not fit for any other time of day
or night, (I count the seconds before the sun
breaks into my world, a vast orb of indifference;
always there.)

In a haze, I think of what it's like
to dream when you know it will come true-
I have become the patterns and solids,
intricate against each other, layered over
the world. Everything is laced together.
The trees hold hands outside my window,
whispering to me in silent breaths.

Can I describe the lonely feeling
of being everything
with no one to witness the rise?

Stutter

Don't think that just because I stutter
what I'm saying isn't true

because my heart may be buried in the gutter
but I'm still in love with you.

Dreamy Head

I want to throw a brick on the gas pedal
like a foot to my chest, force the air out
of me and into the world as I speed down
an endless highway.

I want to choke on salt and sand
with a belt of sand dollars to hold my heart
in place while I dance, dance, dance
and I forget the world.

I want a playground of pavement
and bright lights to play in while the dawn
settles over my tired, hazy world
and I still dance, dance, dance.

There is running and there is sprinting.
There is speeding and burning rubber.
There are dances and there is music--
in my dreamy head.

My Flannel Heart

My heart is a flannel shirt,
buttoned up and folded neat
at the foot of the bed
after I awake each morning,
waiting for you to come home
and to sleep each night.

I'm warm against your summer arms,
covered in tans and burns.
I'm warm against your winter chest,
coated in a blanket of pale.
I'm warm in the autumn,
and I'm warm in the spring
and you wear me all year round.

Because my heart is a flannel shirt
that I wrapped up in matching plaid paper
and gifted to you from under the tree,
hoping, crossing my fingers
that you might even try it on.

I love a love that lasts till Christmas,

when you can put a price tag
on a feeling in the hopes that it
will last long enough to see the sun
again
to feel the warmth of spring,
to pick a flower or take a bath
in new found warm weather.

My heart is a flannel shirt
that I gave to you
to make my efforts tangible.
You wore it with an eager smile,
making promises with your eyes
that your heart
(like wet cardboard,
like tattered fabric)
couldn't exactly keep.

We never made it past the gates
of winter,
dying out in February
before I ever got a chance
to see the sun.

You took the pajamas
and my flannel heart.

A Puddle of Red, White, and Blue

So, you're a puddle of red and white,
while I sit here in my bunny slippers
and a greasy hairstyle:
the epitome of blue.

It was what? a week ago that you
decided you wanted "something else"
and left me here
to cry myself into oblivion.

So, you're a picture of a boy in blue
with a smile on your love drunk face
and I know that curve of the lips
will never be mine again as long as I'm
me and you're
an ass.

Rationality

There's a boy in the box with a smile so warm
that I'm not sure how people can give them their ice
and think it won't melt.

Cross your fingers, folks because he is
beautiful and hot all over and he isn't going to back down
just because you bury him in frozen treats.

We are strong in the face of what you have in store,
our fingers laced together in the perfect portrait
of the confidence we have built.

Though, I must admit,
I shake more when the voices elevate
and I have a tendency of forgetting how to spell

r-a-t-i-o-n-a-l-i-t-y.

So, I'll keep my focus on counting the pearly whites
he loves to flash

and keep my hopes up that I don't fall short
compared to someone with such grace
and beautiful idiocy.

Behind Blue Eyes

From now on, you can just assume all of this is original material. I don't feel like writing copyright on everything I post.

---

Richard was laying on his back in his bed, staring at the posters that had been taped to his ceiling for four years or more.

Pete Townshend stared back at him with blue eyes. The Clash was leather clad and ready to rock. He stared down the barrel of Han Solo's blaster and into the faces of four lads from Liverpool.

He wondered if he would ever be the kind of person teens stared at while they contemplated their lives.

Contemplated their lives like he was now.

He glanced at the acoustic guitar that he had bought the day he turned sixteen three years ago. It was beaten up now, and covered in stickers and one fake mustache. He could play all sorts of covers and even a few of his own original songs.

But, would he ever pose with that guitar for a photographer? Would anyone ever want to listen to him who didn't know him since he was ten?

All Richard had ever wanted was to be a musician, but, sometimes he doubted if he could ever make it. Sure, Josh played bass pretty well and Freddy could play the drums, but, did they have what it took to make it big?

Richard turned off the light and tried to sleep, but, even through the darkness he could see Pete's eyes staring at him. Telling him something.

But what?