all i ever do
is crave cigarettes and crave you

im so tired
weary
of cliches
"jet black"
"startling green"
"angry red"
you have thousands of words sleeping on
even the smallest bit of your fingernail,
but you refuse to leave the comfort
of words already said.

stop being afraid to yell into the
murky atmosphere of this spinning world
that you are not a cliche,
you are a burning fire
with insides of
rupturing darkness,
and dripping, drying green,
and soft, whispering red.

you are a poet,
use the tools of creation which the universe
has planted within your palms.

the fog swallowed the dawn,
the sky is left hungry.

please do not say "i love you"
to me, if you desire to be my lover

i wont be impressed,
and my heart wont flutter.
it's cliche, and overused, and the phrase honestly bores me.

you could lay your kisses on top of me
like dominoes,
and call me the rising sun that tinges the clouds
with peach and crimson.
you could say that i am the fear in your stomach
when you're about to jump off something high,
you could say i was dead roses in the cold of
Marches early snow.
but jesus christ.

please do not say "i love you"
to me, if you desire to be my lover*

cant you be more ******* creative than that?
can anyone be more ******* creative than that?

once
my daddy took me to a clearing,
a shrouded cedar and pine
hideaway,
overlooking the distant mountain range,
sticking up like morning hair.
it was sunny,
flowers sprung out of the ground at our feet and
fought their way through the
grass.
he led me to a stump,
"this is where i write when i cant think."
i nodded and took it all in
with open eyes and a
wide mouth, hanging like a trapdoor.
it was beautiful;
the mountains in the distance creating in my
wild imagination
castles like the ones where giants lived,
in the stories that spilled from his lips.
he opened his arms wide like wings
at the highest part of the arching hill,
he closed his eyes and the breeze tousled
his wheat hair, flowers softly caressing his
ankles.
the scruff above his lip and laying on his chin
shined gold in the drifting daylight sun.
he took a deep breath
a humongous breath;
deeper than any i could ever take.  
"this is where i go when i cant
breathe."
you could hear the echoes of swift trains,
screaming past in the valley
from
Truckee,
carrying chills along with it
every time i heard them.
i never liked that sound.
it was a cacophony of shrieks.
he held my hand
with fingers ten thousand oceans larger than
mine,
and took me into the thickest, deepest part of the woods
where it was dark
and the smell of pine viciously attacked your nostrils,
like a rabid dog.
he let go of my hand,
i let it fall dejectedly to my side.
he slumped down into a pile near the roots of the tree,
a different man:
tired and trying.
he sighed.
*"this is where i go to sleep,
when your mother has had enough of
me."

can we go swimming in
Argentina already,
and fill our hair with knots and ocean salt?

can we walk swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?

can we drink coconut water in
beer bottles,
and drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?

i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,

and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.

i'd search for a boy with
honey colored hair like tousled, dry
summer grass
and a face of
sculpted
clay,
where creases are made at the edges of his eyes,
the echo of his grin.

he whispers his poetry harshly
with lips like racing animals,
his strong voice sinks into the ocean of
night
like an empty bottle
in a leaky boat.

i'll find where his lips
softly kiss the body of a
cigarette before bed.

then i'll eat some tobacco
and light myself on fire in his
sheets.