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.