someone once said
"no one cares for the poor man's vote"
-no one cares for the poor man's vote,
besides himself
which, in the end counts for something
it counts for more than that
it counts for your reason for breathing
for being whole
for making you who you are
for taking the best parts of you
the parts that need to be cared for
and sticking them in the firing line
and you're yelling because if you don't stand up no one will and if you don't stand up if you don't tell them what you're made of
sweat and blood and **** and
heartbreak
no one will ever know
no one will ever see
that the poor man
is the most honest of all
all of the good parts and less of the bad
no one will ever care
because no one cares for the poor man's vote
besides himself

-now, tell me, who cares for the vote of a felon?

i wrote your number down
even though i'll never call you
i don't care if that's weird
i only wanted to know what it would feel like to see it in writing

i wonder about your voice
what it would sound like to hear you say
"i hate you"
or
"i never did."
maybe we could talk about the weather up north
or the politics down here in the south
(they're not heading in any other direction)
we could talk about how my flowers never bloomed
how your job at the pizza parlor is going
or how we're running out of time

anything would do
anything
just to fill the one thing
that is filling all these miles between us

silence
oh, the deafening silence
how it jars with my ears
battles with my brain
messes with my mind

from time to time i hear you
i wonder if you can hear me too

to kindle the flame of fear is a most prominent endeavor
one is never ready, never willing but always doing so without regard for the
   consequence
what a wondrous weight
an unfathomable burden
a dignity never dignified
at least, to the portrayer
fear
which plunders the familiar darkness
hangs hope from the tallest tree
solicits the soul until suddenly, soddenly it becomes
magnificently maneuvered, a true feat
leaving no time to act
to question what is being done
the fury of such force
inescapable
unable to be transcended by will,
one must endure the totality
until the fire has retreated,
the light extinguished, smoke cleared
and one can breathe easily again

the lifting of the veil
so bittersweet
if only i could close my eyes again
forget the things i didn't used to know
then maybe i could howl at the moon with my laughter like i used to
spend my nights
careless,
        carefree
dancing under the Northern Lights

happy.
but the world can't be saved by the sun
the spoken word
and neither can you
only backwards thinking and broken promises

but we never really had a chance anyways,
did we?
what begins in flames will, inevitably end
in flames
(or maybe darkness)
an atomic bomb going off at the top of Mount Everest on the coldest night of the year
(what in God's name was that?)
(the whole mountain is imploding)
imminent death.

if only i could feel you now
the sweet, sullen grace that grasps your foul mouth
your filthy façade that paralyzed my senses
unwound, like a clock
i came
frozen eternally
on 7:29
(am or pm?)

only the best lovers can bring out the worst in each other

so there i was
trapped
in the body of another woman
screaming
to get out
this isn't me
this
is
not
me
my thoughts were not mine
they were hers
my life was not mine
it was hers
my fears,
they were not mine

they were hers

when i scream, she laughs
and when she screams
i cry

i don't own a mouth
anymore
i don't own a breath
anymore
hell,
i don't own a god ****** thing

anymore

how can i define myself
when i don't even know who i am

trapped and twisted and
doomed to eternal turmoil

when will i be free
when will i be
when will i

when

i am the space between the minute shadows of light on the creases of a soft white blanket enveloping half of your beautiful face

All faces are beautiful

everyone is dying
and i am

a paradox
bleeding between the lines of pages
staining satin sheets
cast upon the dawn of ages
rather, this age anyway

what does all of this mean to you
breaking houses
breaking bones
breaking people
everything's breaking

there's not much left to do now
but break
in a broken world
made for
breaking

maybe we should break out
of prison

cast out from the garden of eden
what.
did.
we.
do.

who are you
where are you
and why

if you didn't want us to eat the fruit you could have put it in another garden or stashed it away or refrained from creating it or
You Knew

you knew but you did it anyways because you are not justful you are just
the most rotten fruit

we could have been ripe

the idea was nice
but in your image
we were made

alive