Problem With Average

Come take a walk inside my head. Stay if you like or don't.


But do you make this language tremble when you touch its chords? Do you scatter its music like the full moon splits open the mouth of an ocean on the hardened knuckles of weather-beaten rocks?  Do you dance in the eye of its sand-grain storms?

(via viperslang)

No cracks to absorb the drops,
empty pavements and lonely windowsills-
I waited to be washed away, today
another year gone and they say
everything changed.

Flowers in makeshift vases,
smiles like liquefying ice and the glasses still clink-
I waited to be washed away, today
another year gone and they say
everything changed;

I don’t feel a thing.

Some days we live like we’re dying, like we’re the calm before the storm. Some days we drink too much and spend the night in silence. Some days we reach out to touch anyone we can. Some days we jump from the highest cliff to pretend we’re flying, if only for a moment. Some days we practice being dead, sizing up coffins and learning to never open our eyes. Some days we abandon everything we love. Some days we abandon hope. Some days we smash whisky bottles on the tracks as the carriages rush past. Some days we lose our train of thought, and watch as it derails, and smashes hard into the tunnel wall.

giraffevader - There is a light at the end of this, we might never reach it but let’s own the darkness together (via giraffevader)

(via notjustcookies)

Walk through burning forests to remain in touch with your feelings, because watching dreams asphyxiate with your hands pushed to window doesn’t make your heart beat faster and the beads of sweat on your forehead are undeserving till they can put out a fire.  

I am a cloth hung on weary shoulders and a spine waiting to be touched. A brush of wind, my only lover among the sea and the sky, for I have loved the moon through reflections on rippling water and between wired screens; a mere wolf, too shy to howl and they say, you only taste the fruit once you pluck it. 

I am afraid. I am afraid of what might be forbidden, and so I stay on the shore. Grazed by a mighty wave now and then. A drop of rain kissing my skin, a love affair too strong for these shaking hands to hold; secrets withheld and looks exchanged with you. 

I hide by the night. One of the many flickering lights, on the skyline.

Let go of the past and stop trying to find the future in puddles, darling life is not a book you’ve got to read for school and you are not a pebble. Ripples do not define you. You are not one thing or the other, love. Not a checklist; do not be summed up by frivolous adjectives.

Love will come and go. There will be worthy and unworthy hands. Don’t push them away or hold them too tight till you know. Don’t shut the doors just because someone didn’t understand the complexities to your heart. Your ribs and for support, they are not a cage.

Many will come and many will go. Hold on to the friend who makes the worst possible joke just for you to smack him on the head, but at least you’re not crying anymore. He’ll hold you when you fall. 

Do not try to figure anything out. You were never good with math or science for that matter and maybe you’re better off carving pictures from words you hold dear. Live as you are.

Don’t consider yourself small. Don’t think you are less because you worked for your aspirations instead of theirs. Forgive them. Forgive yourself.

- Five things to tell yourself on the eve of your twenty second birthday.



She holds love for a stranger
in the shallow, open wounds
of old obsessions unrequited.
Uneven numbers promise contrast
from idiosyncrasies perpetual - 
the hint of their form teases 
desire forever hidden under fingertips.

A dreaming, mirage-like existence; 
voiceless unknown, indefinable 
details lost in unfocused blur. 
Refracting light against her gaze,
they dissipate like erratic weathers
between seasons of uncertainty.
They are mystery to her mind,
heartbreak illusion bewildered 
in complacency. They exist
but only in fragments, drifting under
the sleepless rows of city lights.

Her passing hopes trace the edge
of their vision, beckoning softly.
Adoration becomes the ache
of intentions silent and unfulfilled.
Reaching toward possibility,
she forgets herself in her own shadow.

Ink flowing through the lines
on your hands and I wish to be
the curve of your pen, darling
as you write the words to the moon;
I write in the hopes of being that poem.

shy kid


don’t ask me about this silence-
it gathers like old water in new cups,
presses to me everywhere,
a rainstorm made of
clasped hands and closed lips
and the beating of my heart,
my heart a buffalo herd
inside my chest, hoofprints
bruising the grounds of my lungs
into mud and mud and mud,
the roaring of each step
so loud my ears ring and i am so full
i can’t bring myself
to open my mouth because
a hoard of wild, anxious animals
might spill like a flood onto you.

Yesterday you said the words that could make my heart float like Chinese lanterns in the midnight sky and darling, I stood there watching. Favors returned once again but we share no feeling. You look for what you can receive and I check for ulterior motives.

This isn’t how its supposed to be, I keep on telling myself but I don’t have the strength to be held in my thoughts again. Loneliness is a room filled with dying flowers and you cannot help them. You cannot help yourself. 

I let you try. A smile fleeting like rain on a windshield and I keep thinking about permanence, love. But I am the wind, too scared to stay in one place and too tired of leaving. Trees be my savior for the night and its back to guiding ships again for me.

Darling, what if this is how we meet? What if you’re meant to be? What if I leave? Questions that I’ll never know the answers to and neither will you. I wonder if you ask them too. Maybe you’ll be kissing the moonlight tomorrow and maybe the waves will wash me clean. Maybe you are the ocean, darling or the sea and I’ve been hiding behind the clouds. 

Maybe I’m just too sick of being a compass and so I wait. So wish upon an empty sky, for you. While you pray with folded hands for her ship to sail back.

- And maybe hope will make us fall.

We’re the dew drops that sat
just before the rain fell and they
can’t tell the difference, because 
caught in a spider web or placed on
a dying leave, we are beauty and they 
run to seek perfection like ours-
what good is second best?


sometimes we kiss as though our mouths were deboning the softest rabbits for a civet. hunger tastes like damp grass and juniper berries. your hands turn volar; a copperhead sidle by the lit match of a liquored fuse; we came too soon to the end of that forked bridge, its hinges folded into the laziness of a boa constrictor before the nudge of a prong. above the faint venus hung as an amulet. something blistered formless in a heap of human bones collected as cues. lilac smoke rucked up against the chartreuse. 
we watched the breeze stomp its feet over that burial as it chew up the last marigold. we lay flat on our backs by an empty well’s palm dressing our bare backs in lichen the color of bread mold.
we fucked like we were erasing all echoes of past tense from our mutual grammar; discover me through my darkness as though you are an astronomer au fait and i am the hidden masterpiece: a constellation of scars scattering the geometry of this night.

My Own Cliche


The last few drops of air
exhaled from the
dying summer feel so
serene against my
infinite blemishes
I relax under the
endless void
drinking coffee and
smoking a dollar store
The nicotine dreams
slowly billow
from my yellow mouth
and raise themselves
to envelope the
singing stars
like a tattered jacket
before they
disappear like
all the others

I just wish
your skin would
borrow into mine
one more time
before the sun
hangs itself on withered
vines out of boredom
The day that seemed
like a surreal fantasy
of a daffodil
You and I
smoking weed in an
overgrown Eden
catching fireflies and thinking
that they glowed only
for us
and setting them free
thinking they’ll shine
on our neo romance
as long as we
kept returning to that
verdant shrine
We never did
and I
still glance where we sat
on that day
at the end of every
summer and
weep the sweetest tears
onto the screen of
my telephone


Mark Rothko, Blue and Grey, 1962, oil on canvas
“I’m not an abstractionist… I’m not interested in relationships of color or forms… I’m interested only in expressing basic human emotions—tragedy, ecstasy, doom and so on… The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.”—Mark Rothko, 1956


Mark RothkoBlue and Grey, 1962, oil on canvas

I’m not an abstractionist… I’m not interested in relationships of color or forms… I’m interested only in expressing basic human emotions—tragedy, ecstasy, doom and so on… The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.”—Mark Rothko, 1956



Crumbling wooden frame
is naught but mite fodder now
but how it knew in mornings 
that the sky aught not be too blue
or too grey -
Naught but mite fodder now
as we are so to be
'til the gaze we cast fades out
and the actors take their leave
leaving the encore to imagination
and the high wires between
the fans -
The characters rotate as roll on the days
but on the high wire/stage between the frames
of here and there
the Robin with the brightest tune
dances in the air
effortless and smiling
reminds me how
I like New York in June -
How about you?