"Futons & Ladders"- A Poem

(source)

the downstairs smells like burnt toast and

black, runny

eggs 

which means the day is already over

might as well leave my brain on the back porch 

to sunbathe 

and go for a walk halfway across the country

maybe I'll have lunch in a bar and 

instead of drinking i'll chew the shattered beer bottles

just so I can hear them inside me

making extensive amounts of noise without any repercussions 

then for the afternoon, i'll make a stranger teach me how to sew

patches unto my shorts, in a grungy way like in those sad movies

and i'll wear a humongous thimble the size of my body

only to protect me from being pricked by the outside world

when it gets dark i'll build a ladder large enough

to extend above the earth and while everyone is asleep

i'll eat a small bowl of raspberries and whipped cream

with a side of all the wishes made by young children while they 

doze off in their cloud-like, fairytale dreams

and the stars will form a nice glowing futon that will

cover my skin with a blanket of light 

as i sing myself to sleep

"Tender"- A Poem

(source)

and while my mother is bickering once again

about the clothes, the fabric, the anything she can find

I think about how everything is bigger and better

no one is ever less

making me feel like those ants I step on 

that I must now be forced to call my friends

the little worlds they pinch in and out of

in silence from the outside

in triumph from the inside 

I see the togetherness the world is lacking

I sit down on the ninety degree sidewalk

with my knees scraping the gritty surface

causing them to bleed

that day my blood was my tears 

and my mother still bickered in the background 

about the people, the morals, the society that's turned to dust

"I Used To Be Good At Analogies"- A Poem

(source)

you took my heart and didn't even know it

like when 

i guess i can't find an analogy 

because you are one 

why is all i want to ask, why?

because we both know

because

only we do

and unsaid words ought to be the most

painful things

worse than drowning, worst is over

now it's just waiting

and dying of hope

that's the worst way to die, i think,

of (hope)

"Debate"- A Poem

(source)

When my eyes are fluttering

and I can hear the highways through my window

that's when I say the things I believe most

the things that make me scared of my own being

my own soul

but I don't think you should be afraid of me

i won't harm you

that much is not exactly said for myself, though

and I try to make it work, make

sense

but nothing ever does.

nothing ever does sit nicely 

like worn history books on a shelf

things get thrown 

ruined, soiled

by other things

and these other things

are what keep me up when the moon is 

telling me secrets

and answers to my questions

I now realize that 

I'm playing a game of tug of war with my 

soul and

mind

god knows who will win.

Letter to His First Wife, Edie

(source)

“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don't worry. It's all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It's a dream already ended. There's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born."

-Jack Kerouac 

Molten

(source)

The air is thickly filled with molten breeze

My fingers try to grasp it, 

pull it through my hands like molasses 

Manipulate it

Like I did your heart

It rises above me, and for a reason unknown,

I'm not bothered by it

I don't know whether that gives you joy or pain.