It's nothing.

Another space
another time
this moment
would have been delicate
intimate.

we are now
two strangers
in a bed
beside each other
for nothing more
than convenience,
logistics.
the nonsense of it
makes sense to us

to a stranger
we'd look like lovers

but real lovers would know
we're strangers.

Somewhere in Bangkok

Your music touches me in naughty ways
Did you mean to blow me
with your lyrics
Yeah, I'm trying to impress you
by scrawling on a receipt in a bar
How terrible of me
to delight in being a stereotype
How terrible of you
to fall for it
The cigarette.
Was that a part of the rouse?
Who did I convince?
Do I look more interesting now
than I did when you walked in?
Fuck you.
I don't even know you
what the fuck do I care if you think I'm deep?
You like lyrics that sound like cotton candy.
Cotton candy makes my teeth hurt.

Listen.

Feel the stare
bore into you
don't look away
hold your eyes...

close.
open.

hear the sound of my voice
echo
in the tombs of your mind
the catacombs
of your heart
and your cries for help,
for love,
reverberate through
dead, empty skulls
in what was once
a life
worth living.

Time Machines

If I was awake
when I started
I will be sleeping
when it's over
And you'll take me down
to the river
and hurt me
with your armour
I cast aside
the wayward love
in order to find
a new one
but the more I try
to say goodbye
to a life
I might have wanted
I cling to the residue
of a faded memory
and the hope of
resurrection

It's too late for me,
they haven't invented
time machines
but not too late to be
more than you might have been
with me.

The best songs come from strangers
who need you to hear their soul.

wondering

I’m attracted 
to your brokenness. 

Is that a compliment
or an insult?

To you, 

or to me?

untitled

You know that feeling right before you're about to vomit?
That's what poetry is.

A nauseous, inexplicable feeling
and then suddenly
an expulsion of unrecognizable material
that resembles something you use to know.

God.

Why do I have to be drunk
to hear you?

The breeze isn't an answer.

I need concrete proof—
do you blame me?

Look at the billboards that shout smaller things than you!
What's a little fairy dust to prove you're not bogus?

Maybe you are.

Maybe I am.

Cheque please.

Jan 1

I have to stop loving you now, don't I?

There is never room for two.

Even when we like to pretend there is.

Batman and Bruce Wayne cannot truly co-exist.

Batman fades into the shadows.

Batman doesn't get the girl in the end.

Batman has to be alone.

One night stand.

The need for human connection
despite ourselves
Watching patterns happen–letting them happen.

Abandonment of sound judgment.
Pursuit of that feeling.

A cure for cancer.

It's the edge of living

dancing 

with a dirty cigarette in your mouth

hanging from a cliff

The edge 

That's where you feel alive

and the damaged self finds a way to speak 

When it's getting close to too late

How sad.

And beautiful.

Cigarettes change the way I let myself think 

We always find ways around
the things we're not suppose to be doing 
We'll find a cure for cancer 
just so we can go on smoking cigarettes
pretending to be alive