Scars, July 20, 7:58

S c a r s 
are
s t o r i e s. 

They tell of hard times or daring adventures. Stupid mistakes that we've learned from, or times we've done the right thing no matter the cost.


S c a r s 
are
p r o o f.

Proof that we are strong, proof that we can survive.

S c a r s 
show
that
we
are
h u m a n.

July 10, 12:27

I am always trying to write poetry about smoke, but tonight I realized that you cannot write poetry about what is already poetry. The way it twists and turns, the way it flows and changes, fades out of existence. Smoke is the most beautiful poetry you will never read.

Your Hands

I could spend hours staring at just your hands. Your long thin fingers, almost tiny twigs at the end of your branches, the way they dance about my shoulders makes me shiver. The veins, so obvious and blue, almost protruding from your skin are almost like hidden rivers, flowing everlasting to an unseen destination. Every little calous with it's story to tell. Your knuckles, where fingers meet palms, are the most magnificent mountain range, and I want to be the first to explore it. The flesh on your finger tips is so hard and rough from wear and tear, but your touch is so gentle, more than making up for it. Your hands are full of life, full of strength as they hold me tight, yet so full of love as they caress my skin. I cannot wait to get lost in the life of your hands.

July 8, 12:29 pm

I was the sailor, lost at sea
You were the waves that carried me

July 10, 11:22 pm

I hate saying those three little words. I love you. It's a confession of weakness. It's more than telling someone how you feel, it's confessing to them that you've made yourself v u l n e r a b l e to them. You've opened yourself up for them and made yourself vulnerable and you're offering everything to them. You're letting them come in and tear you apart. Letting them rip out your organs, tear away your flesh and muscle, reduce you to a s k e l e t o n. It's a confession of submission because you will let them. You will sit there as they strip out first your stomach, then maybe a lung, and lastly your heart. You will let them p e e l away your skin, rip away the muscle. And you might even enjoy it. 

July 10, 10:13 pm

I can't wait for winter. I can't wait for sweaters that give me hugs when no one else does. I can't wait for the sweet kiss of hot chocolate on a cold morning. I can't wait to stand outside and try to tell the difference between the smoke from my cigarette and my warm breath.

I wish I could fly. I don't have some weird obsession with flying or birds or the sky. I just want to be able to leave. I want to be able to just up and fly away when things get too hard or too stressful. Flying would grant me the freedom I've always dreamt of. I could leave this town. I could leave this city, leave this state, leave this country. I could start a new life somewhere else. I could get a new name, create a new me, and the world would be none the wiser. My past would no longer haunt me everywhere I go. I could be the man I've always dreamt of being. No one could stop me if I could defy gravity. I would be in control of my life and choices. If things start to turn sour, I could spread my wings, take to the skies, and start all over again.

July 10, 2012 12:38 am

I need to be needed. I am in love with the idea of love. I just want someone to want me, nothing but me, and me as I am. Not more than I can handle. Not less than what I really am. Me and my lack of physical attraction. Me and my neediness. My faults, my addictions, my messes. My poetry, my mind, my heart. Every lost, little, and broken part.