last 5 titles [updated 3.31.16]

i’ve scrapped my last five writings, with the opening sentences starting with,
its hell in this darkness” “dearly departed, please be here for my heart
the other three were as stark “i hate being alive
don’t seem to remember, one rubric:  ‘demons inside“.
life is overrated. diluted with wine
my tears empower me. tailspin fusion designed
to reinforce and devour these current sutures. i try
irritated.  i could feel the torque overpowering madness
the endless script. scour for breadth in callousness.
out of breath on land, but at peace underwater
no feelings, this author. reveals at the end of the chapter
that he doctored/remastered his slivers of sonder
its physical misconduct. picture cigarette soft burn
sepia softer, silky seeping…. mossberg
you’re examining my life on repeat
and it’s slightly appeasing to people reading
each piece to critique the mystique i deliver each weekend- or month, or year.
its weird. i can’t survey time-frames in increment values
separating migraines from lachrymation is sad too
just script what i have when my souls in a vacuum.
red dwarf fighting a black-hole ready to eat me
dissect the inside of my pen, where ash grows tethered beneath
the mass knows, the malice that backhands this skeleton species
youll find remnants of relic of this deeply defined, delicate e.t.
a cavalier lifestyle, the atmosphere. where sadness smears nice smiles
in half a year, went from happy tears to having fear light fires
a tower with a floor unbolted. i’m a boatmen with no course. no joke.
thousand waves, found their way. like an omen or horoscope.
had the wind knocked out of its sails, with winds brought up from hell.
sing by myself and it sounds beautiful; help
when i’m around super sopranos i can’t sing all that well.
an imperfect mesh of nervousness that curls from my snarling lips
like a surge of restlessness that stems from the furl of depression.
defensive. protective. self deprecation, or self preservation?
dedicated a distaste for eternity, and to being enigmatic
if you ain’t honest with yourself who can you expect to feed you a truth
that dismantles your courage. without feelings of soothing
i see a lighthouse that i’ll never reach, so i kiss my lantern with fervor
feel the SURGE, of A BURNING sun when you fuck with the solar flares
or don’t- my souls ensnared. most likely tell you that i don’t care.
touch paintings of fuel like braille i consume
my muse – it entails within rules of varying doom.
feed off energy that doesnt exist in a physical sense
even spiritually and, its progression is hasty.
correct me if im wrong but i think that’s the start of an inherently crazy
apparently brazen human being, with narratives caved in.
communicate with airwaves,  that illuminate the way
layed in a zany loop of naysayers. that feed them daily soup to trailblaze
tied up in this phalanx suit of grayness, where hatred blooms the helmet
doesnt have a rhyme or reason for simple explanation
that in theory is, relevant to his seering insaneness.
i dont fucking get why im like this,
i accept all and any likeness to help me on this quest. or this crisis
i carry the heads of lions on my belt. and then it’s goodbye

dreaming of colors

I salivate at the thought of atom lasers and waves of splattered rainbow

the way they collaborate on a acid halo.
technicolor schemes, that i’d envy more than me.
oh, what it is to be, a color never dreamed.
enactment of life, elapsed by the clockwork
collapsing of time. facets of ‘why does it all hurt?’
a village helps a villager, if the villagers hurt
do these pills help the piller if his pillars are burnt?
his bridges are burned? his highways corroded
how do I ride into the sunset if I can’t shift out my motor
road to hell is paved with gold embellished shades
it’s so subjective. wave hello to your soul in separate planes
i don’t know.
stuck in a layer of concrete. put flower petals to the metal
a gentle giant so powerful, yet afraid of his heartbeat
accept what we think we deserve-  excuses for bad behavior
human nature to constantly be stuck in reverse
it gets worse. “but it gets better” nothing to learn from forever
the souls dark. wholeheartedly wrapped in fatigue
thought of happiness being something that you have to achieve
awkwardness. my bed cries with me when I’m sad in my sheets
trail of tears that supersedes the native retreat
i create a path of logic built on a mountain of lies
mountain lions call me out on my pathological lying
fake it, till you make it. hate it, till you love it
love it that you hate me, it jets the fuel i huff in
was taught to cherish things that were romantically scenic
sucked nostalgia dry ’till nostalgia was bleeding
drank the blood from a chalice, and soaked up its privilege
youth gave me a run for my money when i was broke to begin with
a loner with dimming hope, so dull it begins to show
a biography of my life would expose darkness over light
like an eclipse, with a plot twist most would think morose
eskimos have 50 words for snow, I acquiesce 50 words for hate
most manifest themselves, in bloody knuckles. bloody gauze and tape
learned to roll with the punches, but humans werent meant to roll
a ball inside of me, that snowballs bigger everytime its cold
everytime i hold, myself when im at home.

im a droll, dry-amusement, type of guy with nice intentions but with bad conclusions, soft witted, mild human, sophisticated tall thinker. with a soul that’s sly and stupid, controlled environment. spry delusion. im told, it’s tiring, to expose your entire being in poems, and in higher reading.

i never said goodbye once, cause i believe in good karma endings
nice guys finish last but you learn more when you’re not as condescending

Robot. I’m a. robot. 

I map out entire existences in the blink of an eye. I could hire statisticians for the things I’d describe. Statistical paralysis. Analysis by analytics. It’s lonely in the library, & things considered semi-cryptic. focused on the binary, I do the math on how to rule you. it’s crucial, at worst. at best, it’s the crest’s pivotal curve of your numeral worth. I take your pros-&-your-cons and expose them to darkness, it’s the only way light doesn’t reach the holes in my heart. I’ll lay em atop of a cube. Analyze the three dimensions that you provide me with. through a lens made out of optics formed out of the knowledge. The collage that you provided keys too. Base data on inflections of voice, first impressions, interventions,…something like a robot. I picture your arms carrying babies. Or not.

I watch myself in the future kiss you, I don’t live in the moment. I base my actions based on inaction. Facets of your personality. I imagine imaginations painted by molasses. Stain the glass with satin, every phase attained by magic, any phrase you say just happens; take the grain of salt and lay it in my bandage.

Everything’s collapsing. my scent of cologne embeds itself in your bed and at home, I could smell a smidgen off your breath, in your clothes, I could command your every movement when I sense pheromones. Underneath your breast and your bones, I unhinge flesh like velcro, my very own skeleton. laugh at I love yous, and love when you laugh, you. tender, ecstatic, bobble doll of synapses. I’d scientifically describe your most indescribable features, sync a timeline of my desire to reach you. it’s sci-fi. It’s see through. It’s highlighted. Something a drone would probably do. Spark a creative pattern through the arching of the hue.

I embark on lifeless journeys of love, and delineate fractions based on the perfectest touch. Succumb to tithes of jury. Put me on trial, and give me 10 percent of you. THEY SAY 90 percent of all human interaction is non verbal. 10 percent is this: Arguments, clergy. The nonsense unfurling. I wish I could calm the constant stream of knowledge we learn by being earthy.

Human. confusing. It’s messy. I react by reaction time. Read sociological patterns to brush up on my intuition. Set impossible standards. I bird watch in my mantle. I light a candle for every soul I dismantle. Wax factory deluxe, the crux of the mad man babbling himself in a notepad on his iPhone about how he has… nothing. Man VS Machine, clockwork orgasm. The hands turning to me. I try to remain myself, but I’m to caught up sometimes, on how to breathe, when to breathe, the exact figure of when I made you laugh. And painfully reenact the environment so it happens again. Emotional car wreck. a toaster with arms.

I envy real writers. It’s robotic, it’s sick. It’s over the top berating. it’s a boiling pot, it’s cynic. I hate it. I hope that you love me, I’m not what I am, not what you know. it’s okay. I’ve yet to become a sentient prose. how long is a century? I want to become something….beyond the patternized percussion the heartbeat that my lungs give.

It’s a time-frame of discussion, where parallel universes meet each other. Oxygen. Breathes breaths, I could hear the silence in-between sex. I could see the inside of your eyelids when you dream depth, and I wish I would die before we even meet/met.  built a labyrinth, two lefts make a wrong, if you’re right then you’re wrong. Everything’s wrong. only way to be right is to be yourself, I bleed the buzz of my alcohol out through a scenic route.

you don’t matter 

I live by a few quotes. And one long ass mantra. a few of them more depressing than others and a few of them, that don’t make any fucking sense.
I don’t want to tell anybody congratulations, ever. I don’t want to give people the gratitude of me acknowledging them. I want to compete with them silently. I want them not to know that I’m sneaking up behind them. I want to be a ninja.

id commit suicide. I’d commit it in an instant. But, God damnit. I was never good at commitments. In fact I’m horrible. In fourth and fifth grade we were supposed to exchange gifts for the holidays, my partner was my ex best friend, and I didn’t get him anything because I thought the clock I got, was a horrible gift. I was the only kid in class that showed up with nothing. I said I forgot. 
 I don’t have a fear of failure. My fear comes from despising myself when I do. and I will fail, and when I do. I don’t. cause I don’t take chances. I don’t apply for jobs, I don’t ask girls out on dates, I don’t push myself in the gym, I don’t write the best I can, because I’m scared that my best will be a failure. I wrote this entire poem starting at 7:59 pm today. My train is about to land in penn station. I’m currently getting no service on my phone cause we’re going underground. I’ll never try my best. I don’t deserve it. 
and last but not least my fourth and final passage I live by. 

I’ve learned that everything in this life isn’t about you. like even at your own wedding. That isn’t about you. Don’t worry you’re still important! But this isn’t about you. . You, you, and you. Remember the most important day in your lives? They weren’t about you. But it’s ok. When I was 4 I scraped my knee, and I cried, I was in the park with my dad, and he helped me and hushed me. He asked if I was okay, and I cried yes. He looked at me and said okay, quiet now, we’re in a public park and everybody’s looking at you. This isn’t about you. You’re fine. And I stopped crying. 

breathalyzer (pt 1)

so funny how i feel under the influence, without being under your influence
(in a good way. that blushing continuance where everything is diff-erent)
its the effluence of the mental influenza, you condemned me too
i was THERE EVERY FUCKING SECOND. you left me clues
indications are vindicated. nightfall traces of a silhouette
cigarettes. you might as well put it out in my eyeball.
its daunting.
the pernicious environment you live in out of loyalty
poison you absorb, and now your abuse becomes poetry
scars become stories, blisters that cover up his visage
nothing says “been through it” like discolored skin pigment
its like i’m stuck in a trance, a hypnotists wet dream
mentally dissident. the sexiest hypocrite you know
the distance between being in love and being in blackness
(p.s, i needed stitches on my wings where i was freed from your talons)
the flood of neurotoxins flushing its way out
gushing my oval office, concussions abstain now
the eruption of euphoria. so scrumptious
it’s like a volcano disrupted by angel of covenants
streaks of rainbows thrusting. its lovely.
i love it, the luscious extremist, with illustrious features
a noxious stream, like irony. the paradox created
only way to describe it would be.. intoxicating
is anybody reading this?
intoxicated by your lies, to intoxicated by life.
in love with not being in love
flipping coins, landing on ‘in god we trust’
cant wait to hold another hand, no better yet, a hand to hold mine
tiny explosions. farewells that bode time
palm reading, like pictures. bon fire and ripples.
cosign my initials, on the dotted line, of this carbonized puzzle.
the crisp cracking of fire logs that reminds us that fiery passion can crumble
and after hours of ember, nothings left but rubble and smolder
deflower december. im here to dismember your power. its over



October 28th. the day before it had arrived

pumpkin leaflets, summers leaving, volkswagon sedan on a drive

gusts of season. flannels. & walks through 10pm suburbia nights

blasts of orange harvest, olfactory senses concise.

lakeside and beverly creak. Lake Nelson just over in reach

the crossover between the fur elise and berry stems in the streets.

the very first time we ever had kissed

and unlocked sundrops. whirlwind storms that soon would commence

to convince ourselves that this wasnt pretend.

october 29th 2012, we watched on the news how much sandy had caused

wondering if our love was the somehow the cause of it all

visiting coach. 6 hour dividend coast.

whiskey & hope. woodford reserve on the millbury slopes

3000 miles. a year later. psychiatrists, and displacement was born

the forecast was sun, sun, sun, roses without thorns on the stem 

feet dangling off the gondola lifts. balm on your wrist to soothe the sore on your lips.

a feeling of emptiness with her finger not adorned with a gem.

telling me time heals all. something you accustomed me too 

and i believed you cause your wristwatch covered your wounds

blood drunk. hungry for more, hungry for passion

That gets robbed from me, the moment our hands clinch

i was embarrassed. ads on the walls about marriage

false interpretations of love, made the gray areas bland

endless carousel wagon, help reveal this fairytale land.

October 22nd, 2015, three years after it happened

i’ll never forget. i visited you after two years from the norm

thinking it was calm, but it was just the eye of the storm

we walked home from the bar, silence spoke a desolate rage

makeshift disarray. maroon merlot in a vase 

she undressed before walking in the room as to say

she had it with life, and it’s incessant display

of obsessions for sex. and temporary embrace

of this modern day culture of sultry distaste

bra clinging off her shoulders, so i just let the metaphor hang

mama let out a cry and said it wasn’t the same

so i touched her lips with mine & understood what she claimed

inebriated, insane. on your breath, Cabernet

full bodied, at the tavern they knew you loved it that way 

stroking your hair. i muttered, i know, its okay

knowing it wasnt. and knowing we’ve changed

we were both naked, and touching, but felt a silk layer in haste 

and it sucks that i had nothing better to say. 

gray goose swallowing pain

these scars don’t define you, these scars are displays

to let the next person know you made it out, not stronger, but strange 

head in my chest, hair in my mouth, hole in my brain 

nestled in the crevices where the tension exclaimed 

a lie is just a story where its ruined by truth in mistake

karen o and the kids on the record replays 

squeezed each other hands. a two people submission

inside of delusion. to sobbing in fetal position

relationships never play out as we have them envisioned

its true what they say that life is a bitch…es.

keeping the ring box in my pocket mightve been indecision

the next day, on the plane she said to send her a text

thousand kilometer stretch. its something we wanted in jest

when i landed she asked me if we could ever work out the distance

to feeling the neglect in between the pause in her sentence

as the autumn air in newark port, teared through my throat

love rendezvous became my de ja vu. a hurricane i had to fare on my own

there’s tragedy in the stars

who would’ve thought that losing resolve was such a lucrative sought after muse?
because true tragedy talks volume but the channels on mute.
channeling through galaxies having to move supernovas with raw: passion.
any intuition is an intuitive loss.
so superfluous, the way it happens; a dying sun sparks creative patterns.
tiresome survival at the cost of my madness.
theres such an interstellar sting, to the inner selfless kid that
finds himself in brink of that trigger of a dwelling sink.
theres a dimmer from the lighthouse miles away,
but there’s a vignette at the end of the tunnel that i wish that i could explain.
emotions bruised could consume you, in all.
alive, but numb in the same extraction.
elapsed time expands in this black holes chain reaction.
I blame my sadness, a loophole of unfinished business.
I love kisses when the suns dimming.
so dense, the fumes from the smog, allude to the fact that it’s useless;
come on. I came through from the fog, face to face with confusion.
help. my supercomputer doesnt understand how to do this.
interpret binary as separate emotions.
let the stars explode so i can say i felt the explosion.
let the radiation mutate whats wrong with me,
to reshape the relay of this indistinct prophecy.
instead? its controlling. extending its console;
for a better understanding of a severed lovers hand.
came up empty-handed, the stars in the sky have become so unenchanting.
people who know me, don’t even try to get it.
too depressed to write from my perspective.
alive, but dead. don’t prescribe the meds.
i wish i wasnt allowed to blink, so
i wouldnt lose moments, and still heard the sounds of them:
like, whats the point of sadness when nothing comes out of it.
a briefcase full of to-do lists with nothing to do.

You’re Stephanie and I’m Paulette

blossoming beauty. bud bellowing britches
we reap what we sow. i’m sorry, my harvest rescinded
behold love at first sight, to love at last minute
i melted my nucleus cause my base was acidic
it’s not that we grew apart, we just didnt grow to begin with
want to create a spark that embarks on your soulless division
ammunition like fuel to mobilize the holes that we sink in
apparition. the venom that fills the abyss to the top
’til i get thirsty and drink its malevolence
visceral. bottomless. listen, i’m shot
digesting the scintilla, dissecting the plot
touching the scars you gave me. and i connected the dots

i can’t win.

you touch my jawbone in a moment of silence
i kiss it your fingertips, cause that’s what i’ve been exposed to, and i’m
tired of thinking, affection needs affection in turn
a disservice to the deterrent you never deserved
the other day someone said they loved the way that i wrote
to just feeling a difference in the tone in which they uttered my name
inflection so infectious, conundrums like a blood lust.
i could feel them touching my vein


i’ve become receptive to any piece of endearment
as if getting you to talk to me is some sort of achievement
curve of your lips. the forming words swirled into art
the muse from the Louvre turns my oeuvre into all
to consume what you do, with every molecule i control
then to being consumed… & then to being controlled
i’ve learned that timing is a tool that you brandish
practiced brainwashing of patience duly examined
adept at adapting. pervasive. detachment
waiting at the riverbanks edges for the prey. you attacked
I took what I had left, to make a full cloak
a wolf near the willow tree. & a sheep in wool clothing
didn’t need a disguise, i saw you coming a mile away
meters turned to inches. maybe i wanted the pain

if i say im happy, there should be an asterisk given

so now

i gaze past your position. ‘til days past come and visit
make happiness vivid.  gray bandage. incisions.
that’s why executioners wear masks.
guillotine uncomfirmed
stared at the medusa-like glare & into stone i was turned
the same stone you built bridges with just to burn*

Protected: then and now: im sorry. the gray just isnt beautiful to me anymore.

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July 19th, 1991.

all little boys need father figures

not to be normal, or not to be sane. You wouldn’t turn on a lightswitch without seeing where all the conduits placed. You grow up with a fist full of hurt. A surge, like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you’. But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more knowing that your very existence is burden. You’re a burden to breathe. I was just a curious boy. Curious George. Curious Cristian. Tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces. It hurts just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?”. Yeah, I know the in-and-outs. I’m a soldier. Here take my money, let me cry in your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? And how do you turn your feelings to comfort? And how do you know what you’re feeling is real and isn’t some misguided daydream, cause you’re weak, and well – younger. I’ve broken off my hearts pieces asunder. endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask. Questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset cause I proceeded to ask ’em. On the cusp of 24 without never really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people that didn’t want to take up the task. Another week is another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all i wanna do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream ’til I don’t feel any nothing. ‘Til I summon beams full of thunder, till I shutter streets full of anger. ’til my fucking teeth shatter and bust into a dozen pieces of rancor. ‘Til you see a fucking beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave til sun-up and sunsets over under. Cloverfield breach. I fucking feel mean. The form of speech “hate” leaves me unencumbered. ‘Til you fucking learn my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. Its a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure into newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millenials
and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations. so the interpretation gets lost in translation, cause as long as I know what I meant. Your misconception is void, cause I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses. With no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes. A message deployed. Through rejection. Through rage. Through an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Cause remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed. Irreverent. Sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. It’s like every portrait drawn of me, there’s a frown on my face. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames. And those frames are just lost, they never see light. They’re just gray. I have nightmares of being indicted for being different. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethoven’s 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract. & what’s next is a flash. Exposure to quiet. I sit alone at the dinner table, 3 hours past supper. Spinning my index finger in the red wine. Dead silence staring into the glass, as if it’s gonna stare back up. And it doesn’t. Every masterpiece I created is crap. I feel my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. Impossibly hard on myself, that the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. I’ve’ tacked on a badge of honor; for burnout. I’ve become so accustom to exhaustion that having energy gives me PTSD. My madness is bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.

I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. it’s non-euphoric. and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’m hard-strung. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs to my lovers. It’s better to have love lost, than to…..fuck it. Making people laugh is a drug and I love it. I run out of punchlines, and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. You need to be me to re-live it. These last two decades confined to fetal position.

somethings usually just not okay. but thats okay

like to start off with saying I’m lost. There ain’t a map, way or glossary ‘to take it. at all. Depraved. It ain’t sacred. I’m naked. Response? scared of impatience, so anxious. i’m taking a fall. fallacious. paying contours gray with the absence of paint on the walls. state of elation? Sapped. And my grace?.. is an absence of substance I take overhauled. pass me your loving. stay away from me. God. Give me a break. as I claim disarray as my God. Nirvana takes over as I ‘filet and then prod, at my flesh ’til the red blends innately with smog. Americanah. So contagious. It’s gone. Now picture courageous in ‘bombs. To the point where bravery borders deception. Post mortem, now all the good efforts feel ‘sort of neglected. I didn’t step on the land mine to be regarded as hero. Now I man an unwanted purple heart for my ignorance. Zeroes and ones, binary read on the back light. A robotic grin erupts as they’re playing their bagpipes. Demolish my ear drums. Monkey hears no evil, but he fears what you strum, and. You pluck your guitar strings when we unveil relief in percussion. A scar ain’t a scar without something that fits you. That’s why lovers carve into bark, their somber initials. Take a stab in the dark. The knife? the same that my wrists used. The pain in your heart that’s engraved by a chisel. We stay after dark, to praise a modern-day raising of art casing after a summers day wane in the park. I summoned your name, feigned dumb, but okay. as Rain blushes, the chain rusting bathes off with the beige/bronze that pays homage to veins. like ‘handcuffs snapped-off, like a slash/ as the blood lathers and stains. You can’t cut it, you can’t stomach the pain. You lunge after sensations you’re addicted too; as plains plummet in range. Don’t lay me to rest. Just lay me to misuse. Just lie me to waste. Let me lay with my issues. As the Nile drain drives me away. Wish trees were designed ‘outta clay so my tears could cry ’em away. Wash out delays, instead of watching it blossom. They lied. There ain’t a foundation once you hit bottom. Staying awake, after days crouched from the sharpshooting. I call it a camoflauge daze: Rehearsing what to say, so, you sound sane when you talk to ’em