i need to stop freewriting.

...and get my act together, write something that doesn't make me hate myself. like, a real poem. that would be cool. what's a poem again?


the first time
i wrote about you
it won me a name
or proof that
someday
i'd be better
but when push
came to shove,
you were still hurt
i was still proud
you were still proud
i was still hurt
you, at least, had melody.
but i'm just a
what?
i'm just a
what?
poet
i'm just
what?
a poet?


you know something?
she asked.
what?
i said.
you don't ever stand still.
it was the first time i realized
"home"
will be the tricky bitch
someday.


There’s one thing left
I need from you.
Just wash out the sink.
My mirror’s all fogged up,
and without my reflection
the car can’t stop
so keep the water running
until my footprints are so dusty
even the mice around them suffocate.
Then you won’t have to worry,
there’s nothing else
to do.
That’s unfair,
you say.
Yes.
I say.
But love is not cement.
I learned that
from a textbook of yours
that left tire tracks
down my face.



for the sake of wanting a new notebook:
Jesus
forgive me
i pretend
in this book
that you didn't teach me
how to hope
i didn't mean to lie
the truth just doesn't
look as good
on paper.


now i'm going to mercilessly begin writing lots of crap and then destroying it. see you in a few years.