I have been toying with the idea for some time now to take the plunge into the world of published words but can never bring myself to actually pull the trigger. It's not a fear of failing, I am already used to that and without widespread name recognition - already accepted it. I joined this site to use as a scribbling pad, unedited thoughts to get them out of my head. Yet it has evolved into so much more. I found inspiration and friends. I want to thank everyone for being here and being so positive. You are fantastic! And I am nothing but an unknown poet whose words will be long forgotten.

i am writing about the end of us

and you are going to read it.

goddamnit, you are going to read all of this

until your eyes bleed

as much as my heart.

this is the end of us.

i promise.

i will not write any more

damn metaphors

about how you were the sea,

rolling waves with your tongue

when you spoke.

i will not talk about how badly i wanted to be the shore you crashed into, or how much i begged you to collide with me, just once, just once.

i won't write about the hurricanes that pulsed through my heart every time you looked at me, or the damage you caused me when you looked away.

no.

i will not write about any of that.

i promise.

i won't speak of how your eyes were the starry nights van gogh wished he'd painted, and i sure as hell won't talk about how you were a masterpiece and your fingertips were the mosaic i wanted to put together forever. i won't write about how you were my mona lisa.

i won't write about you again. i promise.

The uppercase letter “U” looks very smug to me, especially when it is emphasized as “Ü”. “F” is how the letter “I” looked when it dodged to the left to avoid a bullet and its hair flew back. “I” dragging its tail looks like “L”. “B” happened when “1” and “3” became more serious about their relationship. I’m afraid to know what war “i” came from to have had its head severed from its body. Why is it that capital “Y” is more a question than a letter or a sound? How come emotions are combined into sounds that then combine into words? The letters of the English alphabet are strange shapes to represent my emotions, but I know no other languages well enough to escape from them. I am forced to express myself with the same language that oppresses me.

Jimi’s just joyously jamming.

And HB’s channeling Jimi.

Clock’s ticking, girlfriend’s speaking, mind isn’t thinking because it’s only feeling. But no rhyming allowed in this joyous jamming; only jamming. And why is Jimi allowed to have that guitar and mic, but Stephen King isn’t allowed the same level of performative privilege? According to spellcheck I just made the previous sentence’s second-to-last word up (word up), as with this sentence’s third word. But it doesn’t matter. I want to jam with writing like Jimi with rock. And what’s wrong with that. Absolutely nothing. I am erupting with excitement as I write this. Oh shit; just returned to rhyming. But it’s all good. The goal of this post is simply to keep on writing and flowing and guiding the motion, reminding me of Finding Forrester - when William...

*THE SMARTPHONE ALARM RINGS***

What happened to the line in the sand that God drew? Was it washed away by ignorance? Or did he wipe it away, preferring to witness his creation discover themselves for themselves. I speak of him as if he is a he when in reality I have no idea. The closest I have come to knowing my maker was at a bottom of a pill bottle 10 breathes from death. Next time I hope to be better dressed.

What memories are held in this strand of earth trailing across the ocean to the west? Anything far away, almost within reach and smelling of salt-the kind that crystallizes on your skin after a hard sweat. Snacks from pre-history, left over in nothing but an endless name, the sweetness of honey and aliens co-mingled. Done to a rare superficiality, the one that runs by your table and heaves some bloody meat on your plate without explanation...and the wonder lingers, just as repulsion and the unknown rises the gorge in your throat and casts off everything you were taught to expect from civilized company and place.

Mountains are large, beautiful landmarks of the tectonic world. Vast sculptures that dance through the years. We see stones as immobile, but only because we live too short to watch them change and wander. We can see the trees grow and watch as fires spring up around them. We can climb them and we can fall down them.

These things that seem to last forever, but can also change time in its tiniest amounts. A 7,000 foot difference can cause a fifteen nanosecond difference in time from the summit and the base of the mountain. Gravitational relativity, relative lifetimes, relative beauty. These things that are unshakeable hold so much tenuous detail, it’s a wonder we can behold them.

I'm on a deadline...or rather, I have a deadline I'm meant to keep, I hope to keep in any case. I like to think I've been ruminating on the subject. I like to think that I've been paying attention to everything, including this brownie, including this teapot, including this episode of Hell's Kitchen. He's making risotto again. It's never exactly right until just after that last commercial break. He'll throw something now. I'll most likely write about it. I'll most likely finish this brownie. I'll mostly likely get a start on the essay I have to deliver soon and I'll chew on it a bit longer, and I'll erase all the words, save three or four maybe.

So words fall from lips to fingertips to tell you what it is. I awoke one way and grew the other, conditioned to love dismay. A people led like a flock of sheep, a mass force fed to worship the meek, and yet I, ignored it all. Instead I stood upon but door step to knock and say "hello!"and introduce idea, far from around here that even individuals independent, CAN GROW! Sadly, as it were, as the tide began to turn so did the mood to my message; the more I spoke the less attention they paid and the more closed the door was getting...