inkcouragment

I want to teach myself to fall in love
with the world
so that I don’t have to feel the need
to be loves
by another.

I know the world may be falling
apart
but at least we can fall apart
together
and I can then hopefully count on it to catch my fall
even if the landing is a bit rough.

Wind will caress my hair,
trees will shade my soul,
and rivers will sing me songs
goodnight.

The world would be a beautiful lover.

So I begin my journey
of forgetting who I am.
Who I was.
So that I can give myself to the life
of everything
around me.

You make me so
sick,
but
I’ll spit out
any medicine they
give me.

I can write all the poems in the world
but they don’t’ matter,
because I can’t have you.

You look like
an electrical storm waiting to happen.

There is thunder in the way you crack your bones;

you only smile when it rains,

and I’ve finally figured out why.

It’s because there is lightening in you,

and you’re bursting at the joints 
to let it out.

2 a.m. is for the poets
who can’t sleep
because their minds are too alive
with the words for someone who’s not there.

For the alcoholics,
drinking themselves numb.
Into amnesia
to forget someone who left.

2 a.m. is not for the lovers,
asleep in eachothers arms.

It is for the lonely.
The ones who are in love with the loved,
but are not loved in return.

Give me a room with a view

of myself.
Leave the flowers to wilt.

Draw shut the curtains.
Only open them 
at night
when the window will reflect me

and I can write about my eyes being
unearthly phenomena.
I can write about
 my hands
and how they droop like lilies.

Give me a sacred place where I can
examine my scars without shame;
where I can pull myself apart
like
 a birthday present;
where I can love 
my body
quietly
and apologize for the wait.


Imagine what it must feel like to be in love.

To feel so engulfed by another’s presence in your life

that even when they aren’t around the sound of their voice 
echoing in your head is enough to make you crack.

Where you have the permanent sent of their shampoo 
stained on your pillow,

And you can draw out every scar and freckle 

that is sheltered in their skin 
onto the napkin at your favorite diner.

You are to the point 
where you are so overwhelmed with passion

that you have to etch it wherever you can 
to try and lessen the weight. 
There is just something beautiful about writing your feelings out 
on the truck stop bathroom walls.

Can you imagine the pain that must come with being that in love

If it weren’t for that fact
that when you look up,
we see the same sky
I would be forced to go day by day
dragging around my pillow
and sand coated eyes.
Knowing the telephone line can’t stretch oceans
but the sound of your voice whispering my name into the dark can stretch across the moon and into my aching heart.
The constellations I see
make up the freckles that are brushed on your face
and I am forced to cry.
Because even though we share the sky
you are still so far
and not in my arms.

You called me at 3 a.m. last Saturday night.
I wasn’t sleeping
but when I answered I remember, I pretended to be.
Repeating my name over and over again into the receiver 
you could hear the sand covered eyes and tired tones in my voice,
and the alcohol in yours. 
Unaware of what you were doing
all control down and gone with the first bitter gulp of the evening. 
I still hear every word you slurred out to me
the sound of your intoxicated blood furiously pumping to your heart.
I sat there clutching the phone in silence 
and was brought back by the sound of your voice asking if I was still there. 
To which I replied, yes. 
Processing all you’ve said to me, all I now know.
All that has just changed when you were finally drunkenly honest.
We said our good nights and I smilies into the dark room.
With every new glass that night, you drank to induce happiness. 
Happiness that apparently could only be brought by the sound of my voice saying I was there.
Everything would change.
When your mind wasn’t even sure which way was up,
it knew to bring you to me.
And I will drink to that

If I knew my words 

meant anything to you

I’d write the breath 

out of my lungs