I always get the sense
that it's late.

Later in the day;
          Where did my morning go?
Later in my life;
           I need to get a move on
           I need to accomplish dreams and things
Later in the year;
           Is it a new year already?
           What have I been doing for the last nineteen years?
            Maybe it's been twenty-two.

Later in the moment;
            Are you leaving already?
            When will I see you again?
             Oh, that's a long time
Later in the whatever-this-is-that's-happening-to-me;
            When are you coming back?
             Oh, you're leaving for good?
             Okay.
             Well, let me know if I can change your mind.
             No?
             Okay.

Later in my lack of experience;
          Oh, hey there.
           I'm Peyton
           I want to let you know up front.

I'm a little crazy.
Oh.
Okay.
Goodbye, then.

I am a believer of phantoms and all things undead
I am a skeptic of thoughts on a wire through my head
Fate balances on this tightrope and does dances and screams
and it seems it can only slice at my seams
So as I walk across this planet and stare at the moon
I am a believer of all that is happening too soon.

My heartstrings are out of tune.
They're often plucked by nimble fingers;
but they don't play beautiful music anymore.
They're twanging and waning,
waiting for nimble fingers to take the time to tune them.
Their melody will swoon only then.

With every end of something comes a change of color
With every end of anything comes a change of ground
With every end of what is left comes a change of pace
With every end of a sure thing comes a change of time.

What's the use of a weapon
When I have no ammunition?

I can hold a  weapon
I can worry people with it
I can feel strong
Fool people.

And what's the use of having a weapon
When I have no aggression?

I can let it build up inside of me
I can see people look at me
Because I know the build up is making me shake
and they don't know why I do that.

Instead of owning a pointless weapon
I'll be a horrible person
Evil even

Because what's the point of being nice
When the evils have everything to gain and nothing to lose?

So this time I'm going to be evil

I'm going to load my gun and give it away.

I guess, in the end, we all just have to accept that the universe is weird and never on anyone's side; that everybody sees things differently and that things are never going to be how we imagined or how we want them to be. If they are how we want them to be, they're probably better than we ever imagined. When they're not it ***** and is heartbreaking. It is for me anyway, but that's the beauty of it. It probably isn't for somebody else. Jealousy and nostalgia are beautifully ugly creatures. Goodnight.

Love is but a ticklish curiosity,
Let it faintly flurry away

I'm a fan,
letting all the ashes rush.

I'm a fan,
but not an addict.

I'm a fan,
creating movement of the wind.

I'm a fan,
but not an enthusiast.

In a tragedy I'm collapsing from a canopy above me
falling onto a cobblestone platform beside you, fatally.
You remain dormant as I shriek at you and shove you
in an attempt to animate and awaken you.
And like before you have no passion for the golden stars
on your agenda that you persist on our own personal Mars.
Your delusions still follow narratives like a script
with fabrications that you wrote, reserving our crypt.

So now I melt into your back until we dream together in a morgue,
forced down by the weight of our cancerous lips in this cancer ward.
Nurses of alabaster and indigo serenade and encompass us
with cumbersome shovels cradling earth meant to bury us.
You tucked us into our tomb a little too soon
and now your blood runs cold as mine runs maroon.
I want to dig you up but you want us buried together beneath the moon.

I'm screaming and swearing and sullen and aching and laughing and sobbing and  apologizing.

I lay awake at night
and think of nightmares
and these nightmares
are my lullaby

Then I fall asleep
and have real nightmares
about waking up
and being in reality

When I wake
I daydream of the evils
that sing me to sleep
and my reality is the nightmare I dreamt about last night

I make my bed
and as I lay in it
my nightmares begin
to serenade me again.

Always pressing flowers
Attempting to beautify the dead

He told me, "Pretty girls don't light their own cigarettes."

He hands me his lighter now.

Shower me with presents of your presence
Heal me, if only for a second.
Feel me, if only for a stroke.

Examine the spit puddles
you made on the floor
you walk on
because they'll be gone
by morning.

Stockholm Syndrome
I'm in love with my captor
and words would just leave this
expression incomplete
as incomplete as I have always been
as incomplete as I always will be

Thank you, my love
for capturing me
and holding me hostage
and holding my hand

I understand.

...and I'll always be the one
with an empty stomach
and dry lips
and worn out tired hips.

Once a line leader--
I was trampled by my followers.

I've learned that happiness isn't something that you pursue

It's not a goal.

It's a lifestyle.


And I've learned that happiness isn't a situational thing

It's not a special time

It just comes in the package with your personality traits.


And I've learned that I haven't found happiness

And I shouldn't go looking for happiness

And that happiness won't find me,

because I simply don't know how to be happy in the happiest of times.

It's not that these me and you shoes are too large to fill,
they're just two different sizes
and much too awkward
for anyone else's feet to fit into.

When I focus on one star
it begins to dance.

My imagination and the universe are the same.

I'm just trying to show people
how things are;
not how they should be.

I'm unique.
I'm too unique.

I'm a mover
and there's movement everywhere.

Move with me.

You're a winged beetle and I am a lightening roach during our paranormal hour.
Why am I struggling the weight of a vagabond on my slack-spine back with slack strings that bring silly string dreams to my brain starring an amateur fawn.
Why are you attracting your mate this late in the morning?
I think I'm late to my own mourning ceremony.
How phony of me to accept this bait that that I've dangled so familiarly.
Silly me with my silly string lullabies like sighs of goodbye pranks.
Thanks for making me your mate, or am I prey?
I've been growing a frigid light inside me.
I've watered it and watched it grow into a person.
This frigid light suggested a tundra flight in an instant shock,
juxtaposing the dismal night like an instant dusty fish on our musty hidden floor.
I'm just an instant dusty chore,
a crusty crustacean washed up on the faded shore.
I'm just a maudlin faded bore that's always needing more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more.
I wish I wasn't an instant fish, beautiful and shocking,
unlocking a rainbow that's inducing emotions that I'm chemically reducing slowing to nothing,
producing lightening from my murky roach of a lower firefly belly,
that's been on display a lot lately,
greatly failing to focus your unfocused attention.
I'd like to mention how the lines of your words and the lines of your body and the lines of your face have become blurred to me.
Tomorrow they will be crisp and clear, though.
I know they will be and my head will be sleeping in an endless foggy dream.

Hovering;
      Encompassing;

With a chest that has
      endured twenty-four years
             of ambiguity,

I am rooted  
      beneath the landscape
           of my integrity.

Legs crossed
Slouchy socks
Pulsing foot
Waiting for nothing
With a stomach full of money.

My dreams are so good
they're nightmares.

My shoulder blade is slicing into his chest
but I don't mind,
because his skin is against mine
and I'm stabbing him at the same time.

Writing on the backs
of parking tickets and paychecks

Writing on the back of you.

Drawing pictures with my fingers.

The shards in my chest were never whole;
immuned from feeling broken.
They were born sharp and jagged--
ready to stagger through any heart
like a dagger that has never spoken.
History lies within the ground with ragged heartstrings out,
waiting to be found by someone with something to cry about.

Raise your glass
to all the Oscar winners
that know how to cry,
but keep your glasses under the table
for all the criers that know how to act

I don't have a hand for you to hold,
but my wrist is always there
for you to pull alongside you.

I wish I was in control of my own happiness.

I envy your power,
and it's now or never.

Nothing is forever.

Happiness is curled up in the selfishness,
wrapped around in layers of blankets
warm and safe.

You can't keep it safe
and the happiness can't take anyone with it.

Punch a pillow in one spot
          it explodes in another
Lay your head face down to dream
          pillows explode at the seems
Sleeping feathers on your tongue
         where spicy memories are still young
Itchy feathers mix in your lashes
         drowning in tracks of tear-burned rashes

I don't need a doctor to tell me I'm apart
I just need a paradox to help me find my heart
and I don't need a dog to show me what to see
I just need my hands to feel around the dark
and touch what is unseen

I don't need a critic to tell me what is good
I don't need society to tell me what I should
I don't need you to tell what I know
But sometimes I would like you to remind me if you would
Because there are so many things I can't but I wish I could.

And I don't need a ribbon to tell me that I've won
because I know I can't improve if I won the first one
I don't need an apology to know that you are sorry
I just need you to feel it when you watch my back as I run
because I will feel it with every setting sun

But what I need can't be guarenteed
and what I know can't escape my greed
So I can be sad as I watch them go away
and when I'm done, I can take the lead.
and cut this necklace and drop the beads.

I'll often stand and stare
and just look at the road in front of me
feet cemented into the pavement
with those yellow lines that separate lanes
painted over my ankles
like track marks

One of these days
I'm going to have to get a chisel
and start digging my feet out of the ground
Although there will still probably be
those ugly yellow track marks
at least I'll be free
to walk the path ahead of me

I'll be able to finally cross the bridge
that I've been staring at for so long

Maybe one day I'll be able to cross it
without the fear of it collapsing

Until then I'll just run really fast

I'll try to get over it.

My passion
was always to be passionate.

My dream
was to always have dreams.

Now I'm a failure.

I don't wish to see
the world in black and white
but a dull sepia
would be nice

She sees him from across the highway
He's looking back at her
one hand in his pocket, the other spanning a wave

So she blows him kisses and gestures her heart
but it can't possibly reach him
because cars and semis stretch them apart

so she spins in circles and sees what surrounds
the sight isn't nice
Because he's not around

she analyzes her chances at dodging a bullet
and admits that they don't look good
But she decides that her happiness will always be worth it

She puffs out her chest and takes in some air
and sees him smirking at her
She closes her eyes as the wind blows her hair

Wind below her feet, she skates across the road
she's never felt this rush before
and faster than expected, across from him she showed

Proud of the miracle that brought her across the highway
She reaches for the hand by his side
But he turns his back and walks away.

The universe mocks with
Emmylous and Junes
but there are things far greater
than what rises with the moon

I try to inhale your words
**** them through my nostrils
but there is no more breath in my lungs
And I can't swallow your words whole
so I chew them up into tiny pieces,
and although they slide down my throat alright,
I can still taste the bits that are stuck in my teeth
...the pieces that scream that you don't care about me.

Depressed for time and pressed for happiness

I'm always right

So I'm right when I say I don't deserve anything good anyway

If only I could believe
in anything rather than
everything.

Maybe then I wouldn't always
trust the taste of your
cherry pepper
voice.

This is a shout out to this season
and its amused ****** expression
as it taunts me and my need for a fix.

People are just furniture
used to decorate living rooms
and add comfort to them

Hi.

(It's been so long and I miss you so ******* much)

I figured I'd call you to cheer you up but you're not answering your phone

(I called because my will power ***** and I know you've been hurting. I'm crushed that you didn't answer because I just want to hear the sound of your voice so I won't forget what it sounds like. I miss that cherry pepper melody of compliments and lies.)

And mines almost dead

(Losing hope of finally hearing that song, so spicy and sweet)

and we're still four hours outside Minneapolis, so...

(Here comes four more hours of thinking about you and brooding about the past that I'll have to endure. Four hours of wondering what we would have talked about if you had answered.)

I don't know if you're sleeping or if

(I really hope you didn't see my name on your caller ID and endure the torturous ringing of that vintage telephone ring tone and feel the vibrations and hums of my call in your hands all the way up until now when I'm recording this message, because deep down I have false hope that you miss me as much I miss you. God, I ******* miss you.)

...

(Static/bad reception)

dead.

(Like I wish I was)

Talk to you soon maybe

(Maybe I will feel this brave tomorrow, or maybe I'll just regret leaving this message and never talk to you again. I haven't decided yet.)

Have a good day at school

(I wish you still told me every detail about your day. I wish I was still sitting next to you and holding your hand and not able to keep my hands off your *** as you told me about your classes.)

tomorrow*

(Tomorrow never seems to go as planned.)

It's always 11:11
and everyday is
April 1st

I'm a dark horse, shining bright black;
not confident about my silent and unsuccessful deathly attack.
I know I'm out of wack and disturbing.
Come back and engulf yourself in my misery.
Be dizzy for me and be unaware of where you are anymore.
Make me your least favorite chore. Make me your dishes.
Fulfill my wishes that I can't even articulate to you.
Be my hue of indigo blue and continue to do what you so desperately don't want to.

I've never been a front and center dancer,
but my childhood reveries want me to be a star.
But instead I'm stuck sitting in a bar counting my internal scars;
like notches on the bedpost you imagine holding up your mattress on the floor.
I wish I could simply coast like everyone else,
but instead I exist only as a transparent ghost tentatively listening to everyone boast about how humble they are.
No one is a star and I can't even see a path to go far anymore.

So turn down my music and witness me slowly lose it until there's nothing left to lose anymore.
All that will be left is my protected core, naked and vulnerable.
I'm the bull forced to fight and you're my matador.
I wish the door to my heart wasn't permanently unlocked.
I wish you would knock on my mock turtle heart that you can somehow touch while we're miles apart.
I wish I didn't exist only at the start.

...and then they fell in love.
     they say that as if they were running errands.