angel.

She has eyes the colour of raindrops.
Violin strings for vocal chords
And a laugh like sunlight fighting through thunderclouds.
A smile like lightning
And a heart well worn on frayed sleeves.
She treats her past the way an alcoholic treats an empty bottle
And there’s nothing left
Because she spends all of her time trying to earn her wings back.

So I’m trying to paint a picture out of jigsaw pieces
Searching for her reflection in stained glass windows
To try and understand her.
Why she keeps herself locked away
Like Rapunzel with long locks of regrets
Hanging heavy from her eyes
Wondering if the burden
Ever becomes too much for her cheeks.
Because she wears her sadness
The way most girls wear their skin.

Then one day she confessed her mistakes.
She said she was wrong for thinking he was perfect.
He who made her believe she could fly.
And the first man to tell her she was beautiful.
Until the day he got tired of her.
Snatched her hopes away
And sent her down to me with tears on her face
And a broken halo.
Her paper mache wings fighting to lift her up.
I think I’m praying to a broken angel.

She doesn’t remember what it was like
To have God as a neighbour
And treats joy like a friend
That packed all their memories in the back of a truck and left.
She tells me heaven is a lot more golden from the other side.
And down the block,
You might be able to get your fix for salvation
If the darkness didn’t swallow you first.
So she looked for rainbows…
A reassurance that the rain might give birth to music.
That nothing was ever as bad as it seemed
And baptized herself in nothing but daydreams.

Now I’m locked in her eyes
In a gaze like confessionals in the backseat of a car
And all her secrets gift-wrapped and addressed to her grave.
But I swear…that the first smile she ever threw in my direction
Must have felt a lot like heaven.

Every time I try to tell her
She loses control
And her lips quiver and spasm under the weight of tears
Heavier than concrete and hotter than lava
Hurricane Katrina in a whisper
Like my words were prayers being poured over her
Like an exorcism for all the demons she was left with.
And the rainbows she used to look for
Stopped reassuring her that everything was going to be fine
And turned into ashes of Armageddon in the sky.
A thunderstorm of disappointment
And a broken hearted symphony
Exploding with such force that it knocked God off his pedestal.

And all I’m asking for now is a miracle.
To bring her back to life
So her wings can carry her back across that horizon
Then I can stop praying to that broken angel.
See…
She has eyes the colour of raindrops.
Violin strings for vocal chords
And a laugh like sunlight fighting through thunderclouds.
And it’s been way too long since the last time I’ve heard it.
Forgetting that sometimes...
I used to think it that the angels were singing to me.

StoriesThatTheDeadCanTell.

One day…
We will lie six feet beneath the earth
And wonder where all the time went.
When our skeletons waltz with earthquakes
And bathe in nothing but raindrops
That tap dance across our ribs like xylophones.
And the clothes we were buried in
Have rotted away with our designer flesh.
Stripped to bare bones
No longer able to hide
Behind the tags on our shirts,
The confidence in our walk,
Or the thickness of our skin.
We are vulnerable.

The hollows of our eyes
Lie empty so we can no longer see the sun set
Or feel skin beneath our fingertips
Or smell the grass cut because we rest beneath them.
Day and night bear no differences
As we lie in our tombs
With nothing but shadows for company.

So I ask them why they put the dead in coffins
When we hated being boxed in our whole lives.
And the weight of the world
Presses down on our bones
With all the burdens of a guilty conscience.
Cracking bare knuckles and creaking joints
Knocking on the lids of our caskets
Until we’re only left with our spines
Being used as rulers to see if we measured up
To who we could have been.

And we can only pray that enough people cried
When they lowered us into our graves
To make us feel valuable.
And wonder if the dead can feel
The caress of fingertips on their tombstones,
The moisture of a teardrop
Watering the soil above them,
Or the weight of a wreath of flowers.

And wonder if those we left behind
Will forgive us for leaving.

The heart we prided ourselves on following
No longer beats between our ribs.
Nor can we stomach what we’re left with.
And the hands of time
Are the only digits we can still hold on to
As we count down eternity.

While the sand spills
From the gaps in between our bones,
We will remember our fear of death and laugh.
The chattering of our skulls
Creating the background music
For all the stories that we still have to tell.
While our flesh gives life to those who feed on it.
And life grows from death
As roots creep from our veins
And our blood waters their seeds.

I will lie there…
Past thunderclouds and clear skies.
I will remind you that, after you die
We will all laugh and trade jokes
About how afraid we were of dying.
But then we will know better.

SticksAndStones

They say sticks and stones
May break your bones
But words can never hurt you.
But what am I supposed to do
When your tongue lashes like whips
Against the torture rack your lips turned out to be?
And the words I never said are the ones that hurt the most.

Like…
I love you.
I miss you.

And my legs rattle like earthquakes
Wrestling with hurricanes
Afraid of what’s going to happen next.
Cold sweat drips in beads
Like machine guns unloading bullets
In a point for list of everything I didn’t do.

And those sticks and stones
Are the words I never wanted to hear from you.
So I tell myself…
…those sticks and stones
…wouldn’t have been so bad after all.

There’s no emergency room
For a collection of scars
From should have’s
And could have’s
And would have’s.
So I’m left with notebooks
And dried out pens as painkillers.

While your words form balled fists
In the pregnant silences they left behind.
Growing lives of their own.
Until the walls start to tell stories
Of scuffed knees
And actions stitched together with good intentions.

And in the end…
Those sticks and stones.
Are just sticks and stones.

ZombieApocalypsesAndConsciences

I am legend.
And my biography was written by George A. Romero.
I’m Leon Kennedy
And my conscience is a zombie.

That I’ve already Left4Dead
For telling me every good thought had a right to live.
But 28 days later I see the dead rising
Like Lazarus but I’ve already been crucified
With my arms spread wide in acceptance
In an attempt to embrace my conscience.
Telling me I want a real relationship
When society dictates that I only want brains…

Treating good intentions like a virus
Coursing through my veins
Blaming the angel on my shoulder
For what he did to me.
Now I’m looking for a cure
When he’s already put me on quarantine
So I couldn’t hurt anybody else.

I’m a dead man walking through the devil’s playground
Homeless…because I already burned down the house
With a thousand corpses of the bad decisions I’ve made
Trying to evacuate the resident evil.
While I Rob-bed zombies of their identities
So I could feel a little bit better about myself.
With ups and downs on the seesaw
Manipulating games for entertainment
Like the blueprint for Jigsaw.

I hide behind a mask
And pretend it was Halloween.
Because it’s on nights like this
When living with the living dead feels like the better option
And a dance with the devil turns into Thriller.
See my family’s always been religious
But I accepted my demons with open arms.
Stripped decency and bare skin
Like rotting flesh because nowadays
I can’t live with myself.

And my conscience keeps coming back
Just to tell me that I’m not the same anymore.

WhatBeingAManIs

I’m 19 years old.
Turning 20. Almost done being a teenager.
And I’m trying to figure out how to grow up to be a man.

I don’t drink,
I try my hardest not to swear or fight
The only car I’ve ever had control over was a Hot Wheels
And the only tool I know how to use is a screwdriver.

And while they may want you to think otherwise…
I am a hopeless romantic.
Just like so many others.
See I’ve never had a crush on a girl
But I fall in love 5 times a day.
And as much as I hate to admit it
I’m just as shallow as all the people I tend to look down on
Thinking they only use girls for sex
When I only want to use you for love.

Though just like many of them
I’ve grown way too realistic
Too cynical
And convinced myself that dreams aren’t worth having these days.
See, when I was younger
I had dreams of being a firefighter, a lawyer, a chef,
A veterinarian, a superhero, a Power Ranger, a teacher,
And a priest, but now I think I’ve lost sight of God when he’s everywhere.

And sometimes I want to cry.
But I can’t, because society’s taught me
That it’s not alright for me to do so
But it’s okay to masturbate….and be proud of it.
And that you should never fall in love
Cos it just hurts too much.
That you should go after the fast girls
And drive even faster.
To enjoy explosions
And to never be content with silence.

That men don’t write poetry.
Well, then I’M SORRY.
I’m sorry I still have to audacity to dream
And try and write with words that I hope will inspire someone to learn
What being a man really is because I don’t know anymore.

They tell us to be big shots and CEO’s
Never artists, but I draw the line
When we treat people like soldiers
And soldiers like chess pieces
Hiding in castles
While we sacrifice pawns to hold down blocks
Check mates in clubs, while taking L’s at night
And bury our hearts with spades
But never treat our queens like we should.
And oil pipes are like bloodlines pumping millions into pockets
Leaving millions out of pocket
So we can never afford what we’re chasing after
While we work at jobs we settled for
For things we can’t buy that we never really wanted
Because we’ve been taught to want them.
And fashion’s synonymous with confidence
And material possessions substitute for morals
Empathy is optional
And a head nod can pass for understanding.

But these days, it just gets harder and harder
Though I think I’ve finally found God in myself.
Grew up to be everything I ever wanted to be, all at once
And started dreaming again.

See, I want to be a man.
Have the guts to fall in love…with my family
And love them like it was the only thing I’ve ever done correctly.
Try to be the best person I can be
Leaving nothing but good memories behind.
Trying to slow everything down
On the way to finding out what being a man really is.

SpokenWordArtistsAreALotLikeStrippers

We stand in front of strangers

And bare everything we hide from everybody else.
So you can judge every angle of my soul

While I open my arms so you could see

Every scar in the space between my fingertips.

We spend minutes on stage that feel like years…

Naked like the day we were created.

Before we figured out how to hide our emotions

When that snake told us we were too special to feel anything.
And that forbidden fruit is still caught in our throats…

I’ve just been trying to get it out.

See…most people only take all of their clothes off

With people they’re comfortable with.
The same goes for secrets.

But we do both on a regular basis

Because that’s what we’ve started to rely on

to get us through our tough times.

So we won’t judge you.
Until we’ve seen everything

under that facade you show the world.
Because we know just what it feels like

To stand in front of people we will never know…

That will judge us.

Based on that one window in time

When we stood on that stage and showed them everything.

EulogyForThePersonThatGaveUpOnDreams

This is a eulogy…for the person I used to be.

I remember you…slowly being erased by time and experience
The way pens refuse to be, so they can rewrite history.
But that’s when we find out who we really are.
When our eyelids wave goodbye to that night sky
For the last time and we die in our dreams
Not knowing that we are still asleep
So we can give chase to what we almost gave up on.
The painful beauty of the mo(u)rning
That lets us know that we’re still alive
And we’re not dead just yet.

I still have life left
Instead of working these graveyard shifts
Burying skeletons in my closet
That have already passed their expiration date.

And I’m not one to let rigor mortis
Tell me it’s too late to give chase.
Not when wishing wells choke on my dreams
Because they’re too big to drown
In the tidal waves our actions make ripples of.

See the stars in our eyes never really die
But we only see them when it’s too late
And MJ is still dancing for the man in the mirror
So he can turn into the man on the moon walking
Somewhere on its surface so we won’t forget.
That we are the world
And the rivers in our veins
Combined with the earthquakes in our chests
And the mountains that we’ve piled on our shoulders
Never tell us who we are.
They tell us what we can become.

IKeepMyHandsInMyPockets

Some people ask why I keep my hands in my pockets…
That’s what you do with change.

I store my good intentions in them like piggy banks
Until I hear them jingle when I walk
And state them with every step.
Afraid to spend an extra moment
Letting time slip through my fingers
Like liquid salvation slowly dripping in an IV.

I hold change.
Treating it the same as a pocketful of sunshine
When they can’t see it for themselves.
So I would offer you some…
But I’m scared you might not see it the same way I do.
Because we’re already blind to the truth
And only real eyes can realize that their eyes can be lied to.

So I keep my hands to myself
So I couldn’t hold a grudge

Clenched into strained fists
So I wouldn’t be able to hold something against you
When these bare knuckles are already brawling
With the monsters inside of me so I could find peace.

See, I’ve done enough with these hands that I’d come to regret.
So I handcuffed myself with thread
Hoping to weave a story with a happy ending.
But my scissor-hands keep cutting
At the fabric of my existence
Until I discover loopholes to find happiness in.
The way smiles collect at the bottom of wishing wells
And laughter in the air
Dancing with the offspring of naked dandelions
Stripped by the breaths of daydreamers.

See my fingers tend to have minds of their own
And they open up the way petals do
So you can see my palms looking up at the sky
Turning your change into change…
From coins into actions
Holding wholes like a case of stigmata
Just to show you that you are worthy of a sacrifice.

So I keep my hands in my pockets
And when I finally take them out
I’ll be able to offer you a better tomorrow.

IWantThatRealKindOfLove

I want that…
I want that sweet kind of love.
That inspiring kind of love.
I want that romantic kind of love.
That act stupid with each other kind of love
That life changing kind of love.
That…risk it all kind of love.

I want that nobody’s ever felt like this, kind of love.
A straight from the heart kind of love.
That, I would do anything just to make you smile, kind of love.
That, makes me want to wake up early just to make you breakfast, kind of love.
That cook you dinner and give you flowers just because it’s a Tuesday, kind of love.
And give you my jacket when you’re cold, kind of love.
That make every other girl jealous of you, kind of love.
That grow old together and don’t care how different you look I’ll never forget to call you beautiful, kind of love.

That fairytale kind of love.
I want that, Disney movies could be based on us, kind of love.
That, name a star after you, kind of love.
That, slow dance to the symphony of your breathing to the drum beat of my heart, kind of love.
That, I’ll be your diary, kind of love.
That, share every thought so I can get to know like my favourite book, kind of love.
That, no such thing as secrets, kind of love.

I want that, you’re happy you met me, kind of love.
That forget butterflies, there’s pterodactyls in my stomach, kind of love.
That more than words, kind of love.
That tattoo every memory we have together into the walls of my mind, kind of love.
That sunrise, kind of love.
That, reminds me there’s something waking up for, kind of love.

That you make me want to be the very best that no one ever was, Ash Ketchum I choose you, kind of love.
That, I’ll give you the very best of me and never give you any less, kind of love.
That fall apart whenever you walk into the room just to be rebuilt after you smile at me, kind of love.

See, I want that Boy Meets World, Cory and Topanga, meant to be kind of love.
Or even that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, against all odds, kind of love.
That life lesson, kind of love.
That, if I wasn’t with you then life lessens, kind of love.
That, never question my intentions, kind of love.
And that if you’re not happy I know exactly what to do already, kind of love.
That, make you laugh when you’re mad, kind of love.

I want that, never want to stop talking to you, kind of love.
That I can finish your sentences, kind of love.
But I don’t because I want to hear your voice some more, kind of love.

That one for a lifetime is enough, kind of love.
That show you the best side of men and change your mind about us, kind of love.
I want love…
But a real kind of love.

I'veBeenLookingForYou

I’ve been looking for you.
Inside the glory of rejection
And the desolation of acceptance
When neither of us knew what we wanted.

I’ve looked for you
In the rock bottoms of hearts
And dried up wishing wells
Tracing the arcs of good intentions
Over tidal waves.

I think I’ve seen you hiding
In empty confessionals
Blank text messages
And in the crooked smiles and awkward hellos
Of people I’ve never really talked to.

I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you
Composing an orchestra in my chest
To a chorus of words of wisdom
I’ve heard but never listened to.

I’ve looked for you
In shadows dancing in the dark
And lightning crashing in the sun
Until I could no longer tell the difference.

I might have spoken to you before.
In broken prayers
And stories that cut our conversations short
With the jagged fragments of sentences
Until we stammered and stuttered
Into blissful embrace of silence.

But I think I’ve found you.
In the metal magazines I keep
Tucked away inside mechanical pencils
And the blood of ballpoints
Until the time I was ready.
Ready to love you enough to origami your lined paper heart
Into a masterpiece.