-

On Sundays, look at your feet. 

Looking God in the eyes is followed by suffocating anxiety and prayers that lost their way years ago. 

Trace the trails of misperceptions to the end of the pews, and you'll surely find a shell of yourself waiting. 

Waiting, waiting for life to change but too afraid too.

Jesus saves too often and your mom cries too often, 

and people die too often and dreams end too often. 

And waking up is to die, because dreams are the last bits of God to hold onto. 

what really happened to suburbia

the thing is, no one is really all that good at listening. 

because no matter how many times you play an A sharp, 

you keep telling yourself that it is an A. 

and the A sharp won't fit in the key of C. 

for three years I've been looking forward to the next two weeks

but for three years I've been forgetting how to breathe. 

now I've told the story enough times that I'm suffocating on hate and emotions that I can't remember who created. 

music is the only thing I know. 

and I'm forgetting how it sounds. 

all I hear is calls against the few

and cries from the hurting 

and the N word is still funny to you after it has been whipped into submission for an entire population. 

and teachers who don't know who they are block out the music.

because we are supposed to learn from those who have less maturity. 

because we've walked to hell and back and this year 2 of us didn't make it. 

because we are supposed to learn from those who grew up when aids meant being gay. 

for three years my eyes have been closed. 

suburbia ended because music was turned to pride and pride turned to jealousy 

and I just wanted the sounds. 

but I was to worried of losing the notes,

to see that I was always play A sharp,

and not A. 

but you see suburbia is just an analogy to high  school because the beautiful things always fade to sharp. 

and with our eyes closed you miss the music. 

and you miss the beautiful girls in 4th period that you've only talked to once. 

and you miss high school. 

for an old friend

this one is for Abigail. sophomore year we became the best of friends, and she was the first person I ever talked to into the wee hours of the morning. and on her birthday I learned how to dance. and then I developed a large enough crush on her to...have a big crush. idk. but I think it got too big because we didn't talk for a while after we had a dtr. so sorry Abby. 

anyway. 

I love A. and her blog made me lover her anymore. 

it made me cry three times. 

and not like a single tear kind of cry, 

but like streaming down my face kind of cry. 

the reality of ROAD TRIP tugged on heart strings, as if it was written for all those lost friends, not the friend that lost them. and that was incredibly important. 

OVERDUE was the most tender declaration of love I've ever read, and I just loved it a lot. definitely cried during this one. 

COVERED HEARTS. 

TIC-TAC-TOE was the kind of post that hits you in the race really really really hard and reminds you that waking up and smelling the roses is the best thing in life, even though the poem has nothing to do with waking up or with roses. 

HUMANS AND HOSPITALS is a post that should be posted on every wall of every building in every country because everyone needs to smile more. and people need to feel more. 

I can honestly say that I've never been creative enough to do something like this, so props to you Abigail (or Abby? like I know you hadn't decided on your birthday but that was in November so have you decided since then?)

also, coincidentally i read the entire blog whilst watching the rain, and it worked so perfectly.
furthermore, I listened to the album Flaws by Bombay Bicycle Club and it was a match made in heaven. Basically the best soundtrack for your words, ever.

unknown to the outside world, this photo is actually of me and Abby (Abigail), pre-Suburbia.

finally, these quotes are the kinds that will find themselves on tumblr someday, I think. 

but i've learned a sunrise won't break through till morning,

and a sunset won't set till dusk.

so it seems i need to start somewhere or else my words will never spark.

i watched mothers rush in with smiles larger than the baby they had been carrying for 9 months.

maybe mocking is easier than learning to accept.

play middle c like you toiled with her heart

second chances were guitar strings

and you never learned how to play them

because i didn't want to go to that funeral

so, i'll stretch this metaphor across the universe 80 times
40 rounds for you, 40 for me.

she was purple 

but they were blue





Abigail (Abby), your blog graced my eyes in a way that no other blog has, and I can say that in complete honestly. Really this shouldn't even be for a grade, because everyone deserves to know that what they create is beyond beautiful, and MYLOMBARDSTREET is a kind of beautiful that everyone needs.

This is for an old friend.

This is for Ms. Newell.

well

senior year has made me hate writing.

On the Road to Bedwyn

tranquility lends itself in the green pastures,

on the edges of Hungerford

through gnarled trees and moss covered leaves,

one is called to years long dead. 

tombstones bearing names of the abbots of St Laurence 

call as only the dying can. 

come home. 

for 14 miles along the canal,

you learn more about yourself 

than in 14 months in front of a therapist. 

and for three hours slipping into the water seems effortless. 

because I wouldn't even make a ripple. 

calling cards and ringing bells remind of the hour but the deed gets lost,

and iniquity rolls with the hills until the horizon fades into another dreamer's eyes. 

and that's alarming. 

you were born in a dress cut from a velvet cloud,

just above the hills of Eddinborough. 

when the rain cleansed the cobblestone, 

your cheeks so burned. 

and then you passed over the peak and I lost you forever. 

-

in Hungerford, a boy laced up his worn boots. 

among the graves of St John, a man trudged through the grass. 

14 years passed,

on the 14 miles to Little Bedwyn. 

Friday on Kingsburry

lights and rain are the only connection to home.
here time slows down and languages evade you.
and you have to pay to see God.

look for all the answers you want,
but the pews are filled with tired feet and worn eyes.
and prayers only reach him if you pay the bill.

it's 1:46 in Notting Hill and I won't be sleeping
for fear of missing another 18 years.
because the first time around my eyes were closed.


-


if you take a right on Queen's Street,
I can assure you that the man in gray is as alone as you.
head north on Paddington,
and the boy with the worn guitar is signing you back home between melodies.
turn left onto Russel,
and then right when you hit Bumburry.

and I'll be waiting there.
just as I have.

it's Friday on Kingsburry.
dad is on your left with the umbrellas and empty pockets.
memories of you are on the right.
but if you look away you'll miss me too.

ten ways to say I love you

1. good morning
2. how did you sleep?
3. listen
4. je t'aime
5. my silver dreams bring me to you
6. get down, you'll hurt yourself
7. I'm disappointed in you
8. я тебя люблю
9. I'll find you
10. sleep well

eyes

your eyes are hotter than hell,
brimstone and all.
they carve the words we weren't brave enough to say into the misshaped chest
my heart calls home.

I tried to use the smoke to hide my shame
but shame bled the most beautiful scarlet,
leaving a trail to memories still yearning for air under the surface.
drowning.

how the people turn to ghosts before my eyes,
the dreams that led to them are the only things keeping them from dying.
somewhere there is a grave dug just for you.
and we are all waiting for you to slip in,
so we can lock you on the inside.

because ghosts don't make it to God.

like Sunday, like rain.
because when he fills the pews we remember
beautiful things come in shades of grey.

even graves.

the rivers in your mouth are pouring out.
and the water takes the form of everything it surrounds.
disdain gets diluted that way.

yet i still beg the words to change.
drowning.

in the morning nothing will change,
and i'll slide out of security and into scars.
and gnarled fingers and broken life jackets.

i'm dead on the surface,
but i'm breathing underneath.
ghosts haven't taken me yet,
even though i still hear the whispers.

they've got me on the edge,
where you begin and i end.
and the ghosts fill the space on the outside.
and the scarlet trail runs to your eyes.

don't slip.

ry

write your name in blood,
it'll mean more.
then let it go cold.
because love like this wont grow from ink.

and if this ain't what you want,
then take it from the heap of handwritten notes.

under the lights we ran,
our bones were hallow
and your teeth radiated the moon.

the grass grew between our toes.
our feet were firm
and our eyes were more.

i miss the nights i never had,
the ones that were filled with ill will
and bitter disdain.

too short.

in kindergarten, they never taught me how to draw a heart.
and in first grade they told me my 8's looked like snowmen.

I'm still here bending the edges of my heart,
because on paper it looks like an ugly V
and between my ribs it beats irregularly.

in second grade I peed my pants.
and third grade doesn't have any memories.
fourth grade I cried because I wasn't elected to student council.
fifth grade I beat a kid up,
and in sixth grade I beat him up two more times.

he moved to Virginia,
I think.

in seventh grade I quit football to "focus" on school.
and in eighth grade I wore Aeropostale shirts with basketball shorts.
ninth grade I started talking to girls and sequentially had a crush on every girl in student council.

I had a girlfriend then, too.
but we dated for ten months and didn't kiss.

sophomore year I decided that Lone Peak was never going to be where I graduated.
but I met Isaac that year.

junior year I forgot that I was in highschool,
and forgot how to live.

I started senior year looking for drugs, sex, and rock and roll.
and I found Jesus instead.

stay

tired of the hurt
and of the condescension and the false understanding.
tired of the seeking
and of the nothing being found.

I'm just waiting for the bloom
and the blossoms on my trees and the aspens turning to death to green again.

tired of hating "I choose to stay"
because sophomore year when alone in the cold I chose to stay because AN called me home.
because junior year I chose to stay because LH urged me to drop
because senior year I chose to stay as AT put the cap on the bottle.

because some of us have been there.
and it means a whole hell of a lot to hear the words over and over and over and over

I Choose to Stay.

and you can be sure that it means a lot to my momma.
and you can be positive that my dad loves four words more than any.

so bag on a campaign that pleads with the broken hearted,
because y'all weren't there when we needed to hear the words the most.

and don't sign the pledge
because you wrote us off already.

not looking for sympathy.
just common decency.

he's in Washington.

goodnight moon. 
drift off to sleep oh ye stars in the sky
because I'm sitting down here in a cold bed waiting to be heard by the silence
wrapped up in sheets that once protected me from the monsters in my closet 

goodnight alarm clock
I hate you

goodnight guitars
even with six of you, space still feels empty
but the songs sound good

goodnight sunglasses
I've only worn you twice 
but I promise I still like you
and I promise we are still together 
maybe we just need a break, 
maybe we need to see other people. 

goodnight mom
sorry I'm still mean to grace
and sorry I messed up
and sorry family nights turn into civil war

goodnight dad
I wish you could be here on Friday

goodnight sertraline
you really aren't as helpful as the doctor said you would be 

goodnight beanies
even with seven of you I can't seem to hold in my sanity
each thread of humanity slips out of the cotton effortlessly 

goodnight mountains
you remind me of M and that's alarming
she's never even seen the peaks 
but she brought them crashing down on top of me 
like dropping a pin. 

goodnight savannah
maybe today the girls won't be so mean

goodnight grace
I try to protect you more than you know

goodnight Sadie
for being six years old 
you're pretty adorable. 

goodnight

grapes

drink it up, its good for you.
cool medicine runs down your throat like the water down Niagara falls,
but this time the liquid burns
like the tears running down your cheeks.

cherry flavor can't drown out the
misshapen tattoos that are left on your thoughts.
and a spoonful of sugar won't mask the taste.

sleep aids only delay the inevitable.
because popping pill after pill habituates the pill after pill
until the only reality you posses is the one you find in your dreams.

and grape flavor is the worst.

I am afraid.
because there is no medicine to heal an aching mind.
because frankly there is no medicine to remedy love, either.

and medicine doesn't stop the alarm.

so I hit the clock over and over and over
until the noise stops
and I drift back to sleep.

prescriptions tend to pile themselves like the cinder blocks lining a jail cell
locked in by dosage and directions,
only to be let out by side effects and liver failure.
but I've been on my best behavior,
so I get parole.

life outside the barbed wire fences is a life we are all too afraid to live.
outside the plastic casing and twistable lids,
we don't even know how to.

and grape breath is almost worse than the flavor.

I've got battle scars and scars that tell me I loved once.
but just like the rest of vanity that surrounds,
you tell me that I should just cover those up too.

-

medicine has a difficult time healing broken guitar strings.
they were bent by more than two calloused fingers.
they split over passion and emotions that I don't even know yet.

and I'm pretty sure that if I poured NyQuil over the fretboard, than my guitar would taste like grape too.

-

I guess fried eggs could technically count as medicine.
I sure like them more than sertraline.
same with girls and and mandolins and star wars and huntsville.

but girls don't go with star wars,
and mandolins stay out of tune,
and eggs in huntsville aren't all that good.

-

I'm pretty sure my heart still beats,
but I can't find where it says that on the prescription.
the directions don't say how to deal with trauma
and the side effects didn't mention mental numbness

but somewhere I remember reading that overdosing on normality couldn't hurt you.
unless of course your kidneys stop.

hurt

no means no 

broken bones

cut lips

bruised limbs 

and he gets away 

no means no

as if screams weren't enough 

as if getting hit wasn't enough 

as if common decency wasn't enough 

no means no 

a broken frame of a woman crumpled under the weight of humiliation 

but it's ok, because "you are sexy" 

shackled by the trauma, the victim is imprisoned 

and the offender is free 

no means no

objectified and scarred, you take something from her that was no ones to take

terrified and battered, she's too scared to call the police because he will do it again 

no means no

by the tears of horrified eyes,

wounds cut far deeper than the skin.

no means no

until she is free from the pain,

the door is always open. 

and the memories won't ever fade to forget. 

no means no

hearts beat, 

and blood burns. 

but toxicity remains. 

no means no

and no was never spelled Y. E. S. 

a poem called and

i've been told that you are haunting,
like the ghosts in every plagued film you seem to creep through cracks
in the floorboards and in the walls.
and your shadow permanently resides on the sidewalk,
and through the lawn you chase.
and i cannot lose your chilling touch.

and and and and and and and and and
and i lose.

i know that i am not yet a man,
but i do know that i've done most everything i can do.
the river is warm on my frozen toes,
and i know that i am not coming home yet.
and
and

and if you knew anything about the last forty-eight hours,
then you would know that my demons gripped me by my palms and would not let go.
they all got together making mockery of the pains of life.
and they told me it was ok.
and they shook the walls with their voices in unison.
and they took the drug.

i wouldn't mind you disappearing,
because i know you can always be found.
i'm not even entirely sure i know you yet.
and truthfully i don't even mind.
and honestly i don't mind the haunting.
and i might just call you casper for now.

casper, you roll like wave.
and you hit me like a katrina.
and you soothe like a grace.
and maybe everything is ok.

and i'm ok with that.