say perhaps to drugs

and then she says, 

i have to quit smoking.

and then she says,

she's disappointed in me.

and then she says,

she can't imagine going back.

but she never says:

   "i'm weak, 

    i'm sick,

              i'm following tides because i'm tired"

and then she says,

she's in rage.

maybe i am sick.

maybe i am following tides

because i'm tired.

i wonder who is,

i wonder who is.

exctinct suns

i wish i could

try swallow my own tongue

sometimes it hurts

         yes it hurts

and then it's all smoke,

see you can

swallow smoke

but i refuse to could up myself

with meaningless lies anymore.

all life has now been reduced

to a promise of you

out of reach

in a glass house

for my delight.

all life has now been reduced

to extinct suns,

forgotten midnights

and empty cinema seats.

i wish i could see your ghost

oh yes i do

maybe then

words wouldn't trip on me

letter #1

i could write you letters.
i could re write my head out for you,
in millions and millions of lines
through which you swim.
lately i've been trapped by
this cement brutality;
i have seen myself lost inside a crowd
of cold-stone faces,
but none of them are afraid,
all of these people,
where do they go?
i'm tired of this beautiful city
where no one looks up,
you see,
we're filled by this modern apathy
every day a little bit more
our hearts become clouded by our duties;
even if there was a sky above,
what good would it serve
this chaos?

i wish you could see all
of your own dismay,
this destruction aids my journey back to you,
and with each step
in this town,
i know i'm retelling your story
for the sake of rememberance
and i don't think i'll ever let you die.

finding ashes in cushions

there's a certain karma i can't shake, you see

it's the smoke it infiltrates my skin

and i give up for

sullen and incompetent arguments.

i'm tired, you see,

i've tried inhaling the past but

it just comes back in waves;

you're a catchphrase you can't use;

in certain ways i feel sorry.

again i can't shake myself off

because when i look at you

i think i recognize myself

born on easter day

i was waiting for strangers to greet

on days of ressurrection like

i was the real jesus christ.

all this time ive wasted it in the sun

hoping for more than ive ever given.

restrained to a life of being a bad person,

now i am one.

and then she says she would like to 

see me when i'm angry;

in fact her life lacks thunderstorms

and probably she's waiting for lightning.

i'm always down for this

kind of being nice and everyone around me

seem to make me realize

i have to work myself up a lot

before i grow up.

internally i daydream of emancipation

when in reality i'm still the same child

i was yesterday.