Parking Lot

Our voices echo over the empty concrete
like a chorus of grackles, but more cheerful
and far less daunting than those pestilent
gruesome creatures that dwell in the backs
of our minds bearing the mark of yesterday
and the promise of doom on the horizon.

But for the time, our minds are elsewhere:
in the hands of each other and in the realm
of stars that we look to as we press down on
the cool earth and it stubbornly pushes back
up, reaching for the stars that are so far away
and so impossible for it to reach, but not for us.

Because out there in the parking lot
We are the stars that make up the sky
and shine so brilliantly with the silver light
illuminating our footsteps as they fall behind us
as we ascend into the heavens to yell out into the night
that we are the immortal souls who will linger long after

these nights and days together are spent and we no longer

exist here in this abandoned parking lot on the edge of this expanse
of nothingness, loneliness, despair, and ultimately the humilation of
life trapped inside the confines of brick walls that don't press so
much as oppress the minds of those poor, ignorant children who think
they are learning when all the learning to be found on earth can be
found not in the walls but out on that lonely parking lot.

We yell into the night
because we know it listens.
We laugh into the night
because there, we know no cares.
We hold onto the night
because there, we belong together.

On the edge of the parking lot,
In the middle of the world.

Warm Fuzzies

What it was is not what it is
and where it went is nowhere near
the place it will come to be.

I've got warm fuzzies in my mind
and in my heart and in the pit of
my stomach that ties in knots
every time that he comes near
and every time I suddenly hear
the words from his lips that melt
and then drips over my body
like the ice that thaws over my
torn
and broken
ugly, hopelessly
slain on the cutting room floor
heart.

I get warm fuzzies that slowly find
a way into those broken pieces
and they begin to melt the steel
and weld it back together
and stay there forever,
leaving fuzzy little fragments
to remind me that he existed
and to cheer me up when he no longer does.

What it is is not what it was
And what it has come to be
is nowhere near where it went.

Lies

They get easier,
these lies about my life.
With each

I lie to myself
to fool myself
to believe in myself
to avoid my true self

A tortured, scared
little boy afraid of the world
and wanting to be cared
for by some nice boy or girl
and waiting for this rare
gift to suddenly appear
out of some magic lair
that holds it so very dear
inside its black hole of a place
where there is no memory
of a lover's broken face
or of that of the empowered enemy
who tore apart my soul
within this painful recollection
of a time before he took hold
and everything was an image of perfection.

I lie to the ones who bore me
because I can't let them know me
Because who I am and what they see
are two opposites never meant to be.

I'm not what you wanted
Not your perfect little son
Who made the grades
and never had any fun.
I am not this innocent little boy.
I am not your eager little toy.
I am not your
rag doll, throw-around, play with me,
little insignificant ball of clay
so you can mold me in that special way.
I am my own stone figure
that gotten much bigger
than you and your tiny homestead lifestyle
out in the middle of this desert
halfway between civilization and ruin:
nowhere good to be!

But I will not lie to them
because I am friends with them
And everything I know, I tell them
Because they're NOT with me 'til the end.

There is safety in a friendship
that may last one more day
because things don't go the right way.
There is safety in a quick trip
down a memory that no one else knows
and where no one else goes
because it's that one quick dip
into the most important part of past
the most influentual moment cast
in my mind
and shared with those
left behind,
who never were close
enough to be permanent
in my life.

I lie to myself
to save myself
I lie to those who bore
To save them from more
But I never lie to a friend
cause they're not with me in the end.

Truth builds the bridges I will burn
when I'm on the other side.

Recovery Pt. 2

They say the quickest way to being happy
is to remember what makes you the happiest.
They say the quickest way to freedom
is to do the things that make you feel freest.

They also say the road to recovery is long and hard
and you can travel for miles and miles and not get very far,
But they also say the opposite; that happiness is a step away,
But if we all take the road less traveled, it's all ends up the same.

So here's to that simple step to recovery
The laughter found in the closest friends
And the bond that's shared that bends
but never breaks
and always makes
it easier to live for
just one more day.

Here's to that first footfall towards success
And the striving goal to reach the best
and the drive to make up for the rest
of the time
lost in rhyme
and reason:
thinking but never doing.

Here I cheer for fear of mere insecurities
that can easily be overcome
with the help of those most dear.
Here I wail for failures of well-laid plans
that never came true
because something or someone bailed.

It may be a long road to recovery
But the first step is the worst.
Cause the blades get duller
and the feet grow stronger
with each passing day
With each pressing blade
against the bare souls
of uncovered feet of an old,
tarnished life.

It may be a long journey to recovery
But just open your eyes and see
That no matter the pressures
or pain or sadness or rain
The first step is the hardest
and the first step is fifty paces back
And five fathoms below where you are now,
Because look to the world around you
and happiness can so easily be found.

Just open your eyes
to the happiness inside
each and every last
one of us.

Box of Smiles

I carry around a box of stickers
that smile up at me when I lift the lid.
I call it my box of smiles
And every last one is mine to give.

I pass a golden star
to those who simply shine
And I stick a silver heart
to the loves of my life.

I share my happiness through
these paper, sticky things.
I give some rays of light
and hope new wings.

I carry around a box of stickers
My way of showing the world I care
Because even though others are quicker
I like to stick them here and there.

I carry around my box of love
And I hand it out freely.
I carry around my box of faith
and hope to believe it really.

The world tells you to succeed
One must think outside the box
But when I think about the world
I only think of how it blocks.

So I like to think inside my box
And keep my smiles in there
Because without the stickers
I just don't think I'd care.

The Happy Poem

I call this one the happy poem
Because it is THE only one
that can ever make me happy.
I don't write happy,
but who does really?

It's all
RaInBoWs
and
Blue Skies
and
Smiles
Just
little lies.

Happiness is a warm gun
It'll go off in a flash
and be gone until you reload
the endorphins in your mind
that help you unwind
from the stress of this
everyday
ho-hum
life.

But this was meant to be a happy poem
About those little rainbows and blue skies
And the things that make it seem alright.

Too bad I'm happier when the sky is gray
And the sun won't shine while the clouds stay
and I'm happier when the rain pours
than when the light shines down to spread colorful spores
of that disgustingly morose representation
of a culture that really can't be described in a rainbow
Because who the fuck is comparable to that?

Every color is never duller
Than when it's put into context
around this concave, convex
mirror that I stare into
and hate the rainbow-bright
starry-blue-eyes
glaring back
through the night.

This is the gay poem
The happiest there is?
This is the way poem
...just the WAY it is.

Here in my mind I find shelter
from the thoughts of the world
and the thoughts of my mind
when I'm exposed to that world
and the right that I'm wrong
because I don't love the girl
The way a man loves a woman
in that silly story of boy/girl
that started the mindset
that led to the hate
that burns my bridges
and makes me late
for this "fairy"-tale life
that I was promised
when someone told me
about one
Gay
Poem.

This is the happiest poem I'll ever write
Because I'm not good at happy, it just isn't right.
Cause who wants to take the time
When they're at the peak of mind
that defines the happiest moment of life
To sit down and write?

I live for the experience
and experience the life
So I'll pause when I'm brooding
Or seeing an insightful sight.

But as for the moment,
This is the gayest piece of poetry babble
That has ever "come out" of my life.

These Places Remind Me

Every memory has a scent
Every scent has a name
And a face and a time and a place.
Every moment has a memory
Every second holds a life
and a person and a place and a time.

Every place reminds me
Of a time and a life and a memory of
the things we had and the things we shared
and the times we spent and the way we cared.

Every scent reminds me
of a different time and a different place
and a different body and a different face
and my closeness to the world and all of you.

The axe cuts through my mind
Taking over, back to a time
When you cared for me and me for you
and all we had was the moment,
the rhythm, the rhyme.
Raspberries remind me of your lips
of that time in the alley
And that one, long, intimate kiss.
Downy reminds me of those soft times
when I would cry when you left me alone.

I can never drive by that big screen
without looking into your eyes all over again
As you fastened those shells around my neck.
I can never cross that stage
without feeling your arms around me
pulling me through the curtains, out the back.
These places remind me of those happy times
When we held on tight and promised to fight
To never let go and to somehow survive.

These places remind me of
what we shared
and what we held
and how we cared
and where we fell.

You weren't so bad as a first
And certainly not the worst.

But these places
don't remind me
so very often
of you anymore
Not like they did
a short time before.

Cause these places did remind me
To never trust you so much again
To guard my heart, marked with chagrin.
These places stand as monuments
of where we failed--where you failed
And I don't think I'll go back there again.