I'm afraid of falling
To deep for you.
I'm scared of how
This might end.
I'm afraid I might have never
Really loved you.
I'm scared that I
Might not be able to control myself
Around you.
I'm afraid I might not
Be real.
I'm scared that you
Might not be either.
I'm afraid that my
Nightmares might
Come true.
I'm scared that you might
Want them to come true.
I'm afraid we might not
Be friends anymore.
I'm also scared that
You don't want me in anyway
Anymore.
Not just 'girlfriend' wise (which would never happen anyway but I keep my hopes up)
But in a friend way.
Even an acquaintance way.
That we might just forget each other and
Not remember everything we've been through.

I can't lose you.

And he was beautiful
Within his scars
and within his bones
and within the labyrinth, his mind
There was a terrifying beauty
that she could never see or understand


She didn’t deserve to.

I reached for the moon and took it in my hand,
Wrapping my fingers around its luminous sphere.
I gave you the moon along with its craters and imperfections,
But you didn't want the moon.
You wanted the stars.
And darling,
That was something I could never give you.


I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.

"i'll love you until that balloon deflates"
a 3 am lie.
pining over old prom dates,
trying not to die.
don't act like we're first mates.
stop making me cry.
devours. he satiates.
i'm grasping air, i'm a shallow sigh.

At what point can I call myself a poet?

If I could fully articulate what and how I felt
  at the moment when I watched my mother
  slowly slip away from me and this world

If I could completely convey the oppressive sense of loss
  the helplessness, the hopelessness, the loneliness
  the shocking realization of irreversibility, the finality

If my words could make you feel the draining of my soul
  the relinquishment of having even an instant in the future
  when it seems that all is perfect in my world

If I could construct a phrase that could relate the emptiness
  behind the grief that comes with knowing that no longer would
  birthdays and holidays be wrapped in her joy and infectious spirit

If my poem could shout out to you the overwhelming regret
  that accompanies the inability to hold her, to kiss her, to say I'm sorry
  or to tell her just how very much I love her ever again

If I were truly able to do these things
  maybe then I could call myself a poet


                                 Happy Mother's Day, Mom
                                    I miss you & I love you!
                                            ****'s & ooo's

don't you ever doubt it
you have my purest feeling
I've fallen from your lips
I've seen the depts of your pupile
and I thought I was the greatest misanthropist
until I found you

I wanted to share your
Venom tonight.
Your hot,
Wet
Breath that
Tastes like whiskey and
Cigarettes.

I wanted to and
We almost did.