Weary brittle bone
Shuffling feet
To the beat
Of the dial tone

Smoke sticks
Full of cancer
Ride in enhancers
Of death for kicks

Tantalize our skin
With jewels and lust
Always a must
Going again & again

Testing ourselves
Wanting stories
Can get gory
Tearing books from their shelves

*I''ll never stop

i.
***** blond hair and braces,
beanie and a sweatshirt,
you were the secondary third wheel
along with myself.
you put on all four hats and
nearly choked on your soda
at someone’s ***** joke.

ii.
hair parted sideways,
black-ringed blue eyes,
we vaguely remembered each other
and talked a bit before going back
to the ones who had originally brought us.
the blue was pretty and you had a bubbly laugh
and were dressed nicer than before.
we finally memorized each other’s names
and when it was time to go,
we hugged and I told you to
drop by again soon.

iii.
braces off and longer hair,
your board had a new paintjob.
we enthusiastically greeted each other
with a hug and an exchange of names
and we ended up sitting at the computer
for most of the afternoon and evening.
we talked without restraint and
had definitely become easy friends.

iv.
hair shaved off on the sides,
the rest slicked back like a new-age greaser,
you smelled slightly of stale cigarettes
when I tucked my face against your neck
for our routine hug.
I squeezed you tight and brushed my thumbs
across the leather of your jacket.
you were angry and stressed but didn’t really show it
and I wasn’t sure what to do with my still-new
feelings for you.
I held your hands outside that night
and asked you to quit again,
because people come and go and life’s too short
to make it even shorter
by ******* on a stick of chemicals and tobacco.
you said you’d quit soon and thanked me for being there.

v.
you stayed over
and we spent most of our time
swapping songs and playing video games
and snacking on poptarts and arizona.
I woke up the next morning to find that
you hadn’t slept
and wondered what you must have been thinking about
that could keep you up all those hours.

vi.
we saw a bad movie together tonight.
our heads bumped multiple times
and we both had to pull up our legs
since our heels barely touch the floor comfortably.
your forehead would wrinkle when you were looking up
and it gave you an air of maturity
that I didn’t know you could pull off.
I wanted to kiss you
but didn’t know what you thought of me
so I didn’t.

Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never seen
a set of poetic hands.

As they tumbled
syllables into songs
like waterfalls
roaring a powerful
“Hallelujah.”

Hands drenched in blood
decorated with scrapes and bruises
grasping for memories long repressed.
Memories only brought back
when their pen grazes the
inviting blank canvas before them.

2 o’clock in the morning
crying to no one in particular
as their heart slowly
but however, beautifully
bleeds onto the canvas,
crinkled around the edges
because it’s taken awhile
to get these words out.

Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never gotten a glimpse
of the complexity that is
a poet’s mind.

Minds crammed with the
hurts of yesterday,
the dreams of tomorrow,
and the change they wish to bring about.

Different experiences call certain memories
from subconscious to conscious
as their dreams slow dance with doubt.
And their ideas for change
are wasted on ears
filled with fingers of ignorance.

Still they press on, in a
beautifully, depressing battle
of desire versus dejection.
Hoping a single phrase
will strike the ear
of someone who needed to hear it.
And touch
the heart of someone who needed to feel it.
Because the potential to reach
the unwilling,
the unable,
and the unwanted,
is worth the uphill struggle.

Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never experienced
the power of a poetic heart.

Hearts strong with experience,
but cautious because of it.
The unrelenting beat
as it is used, stepped on,
and thrown away.
Do you hear it?
Ringing in your ears.
Unable to escape from
it’s heartbreaking
melody of “what ifs”
and “if onlys.”
Hiding behind
walls of regret
and instances of deceit
where it was once stolen.
911 was called,
but they were
cardiac arrested
for allowing this break in to occur.
An accessory to their own pain.

Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never met
a poet.