“If I ever do something like that, kill me”

I found it strange
When the world didn’t change
The few that knew you were shifted
Yet everything else kept moving

But now it all seems so stale

I never thought I’d be the one to lose you
The healthy
Full of life
The older
It should have been the other way around
But I guess the world had other plans
Or maybe you were just too much for it

You were unlike anyone I have ever known
And maybe you were a threat to this insanity
We run around calling ‘society’

I still think about the conversations we’d have
You so certain in yourself
So god damn certain you’d be able to change this place

And you had
You never thought it was good enough
But you changed everyone you came in contact with
Whether you knew it or not
You were genius in your words

I couldn’t come to terms that you were gone
But I have come to accept reality
As much as I tried to erase this event
I’ve seen too many go down that unhealthy road
Of non acceptance

So I’ve made an agreement with the universe
I will accept that you are gone
But I will never forget how you’ve changed me
And will always remember the last thing I heard you say

It’s like you knew it was our last conversation we would ever have
I don’t like to think of it that way
But you always had a way with words



I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day


it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.

Jeremy and the Cockroach

Jeremy focused on the bloated carcass of a cockroach resting serenely in the grass near the headstone of someone he’d never known.

The name on the stone read “William J. Wilson,” and he’d been born in 1912, died 78 years later.

This was irrelevant to Jeremy, who was fixated on the roach carcass in the grass. It’s glistening black bulk was swarmed by numberless ants, small enough themselves that roach they feasted on probably seemed a behemoth.

It was a piercing, clear afternoon. The sky, a cold blue with pure white clouds scattered like sailing ships. This was also irrelevant to Jeremy. He’d ingested six hits of acid roughly four hours ago, and he’d already had his fill of the sky. Now, he wanted to examine the roach.

The way the ants moved about lent the impression that they were springing forth from the very bowels of the dead thing, and then marching back within. Emerging and then returning, emerging and then returning. And how fluidly they went about this! Emerging and then returning. The perpetual movements of birth and death.

Jeremy entertained himself with the thought of this hungry swarm of ants gestating in the belly of this massive cockroach, gnawing their way through its innards and bursting forth in brilliant procession. Devouring the flesh of their surrogate mother and when sufficiently gorged, returning to her rotten womb to drift satisfied into their eternal slumber. Their decaying particles would nourish a new brood of ants, and the cycle would repeat.

Jeremy smiled.

“How wonderful life is!”

-r. miller

The Long Road Home

There’s something cold about the way he kisses me, soft twin bows cool on my spine, or perhaps it is the skin itself, so unused to the high north chill, that recoils and quakes at the simple touch of wind, door frames, quiet embraces where I don’t expect them. He, a half-conscious agitation of dreams and uneven breathing, winds himself around me and fits his head in the curve of my neck. I remember 500-piece puzzle sets I used to assemble when I was small, stubborn hands jamming the wrong pieces together and trying to fashion a picture that gave sense to the mess of edges and empty space.

My foreign words are fluent now, smooth expressions of nebulous constellations, but for the life of me I cannot translate this: his assured sleep and blithe sighs while I try to slide myself from under his arm and out the door, telling myself that it’s simpler if tonight’s the only collateral damage to account for. We, embodiment of continental drift, Pangaea disassembled by convection and slow subterranean waves, dreamed of love infallible, unwinding over the ocean until one of us found our way home.

He stirs the moment I put my first foot into the night, bleary gaze taking in my half-obscured silhouette inching over the ledge. He grips my hand and tries to pull me back, consciousness dawning quickly now, and I lean to kiss his neck. “I’ll come back for you,” I said, and closed the window on his fingers.



Realizing you can feel someone 
Is the most terrifying thing 
You can tell when they are truly there

In a moment

When they are faking a smile

And just pushing through the days

The little things like being relaxed

Or uneasy come rushing forward

As they become a part of you

Experiencing the same reactions

Feeding off of their hidden moods

It’s an unrealistic jolt of life

Only found in others you dare to be close to

Sharing these unspoken secrets with each other 

The down side of this gift 

That bonds two people

Is you can tell when they stop truly loving you

Words Of A Writer’s Block Survivor

I should listen to them
All the barking
To get minimum wage
And work towards a life
A simple life
To be like everyone else
Defining normal through others
We can’t go there
The understanding is too real
The lyrics–too loud
Competing for something different
Something true
We live for the passion
And fear of what nature brings
In the hands of the ocean
I lie in your fear
On land–I strive for truth
And meaning to these words
These words are my drive
My hunt for the greatest
The biggest kill
Before I die I will reach it
That last line I will write
It seems to never end today
These words so fragile
Feeling they could change something
Somewhere in time
An opposite being–perhaps
Other days it seems to stop
Like it will finally shut down–end
Like I have reached the last line
My fragile broken mind
That last ounce of soul I had left
The life I was meant to share
Then we drive on again
Listening to others cry
The words sinking in
About relations
And experiences we too have–suffered
As the road takes us–nowhere
In hopes to reach you
I write these words
Of purpose to some-one-thing where
Nonsense to others
These words will bring us home
And kill us when it’s time