Youre A Secret My Peers Dont Even Know About. I Mean Sure, I Write On The Side, Im Really More Of A Poet

you’re a secret my peers don’t even know about. i mean sure, “i write on the side,” “i’m really more of a poet than an artist,” and all that jazz, but they don’t know shit about this. i like anonymity. nameless title cards. clipped out faces, blurred hands, and trailing frames. unfinished indesign files laying around my hard drive. the art of dragging things out for as long and as long and as long as i possibly can. i can break my work up into shows. but poetry doesn’t work like visual art galleries unless i give it visuals. and i try, all i’ve got are half finished sketchbook pages and notes crawling with ballpoint pen ink. and this isn’t even poetry, god, its just writing.

i think i’ve found my passion or some shit, less terrified for the future but still willing to let someone discover my cold body hanging by a rope. i’d be perfectly happy being an artist for the rest of my life but god, i don’t want to deal with the uncomfortable parts of life. i want words to flow from me not like they are, i want beauty dripping from my fingertips and i want people to like it. i want a fucking pat on the back. i want a hug. i want to be comforted, to be loved, which leads me back to why i do all this shit anyway. but it sounds pathetic,

Artist’s Statement:

I create art as a means to express my longing for emotional intimacy and desire to feel cared for. In “Seventeen” I depict my journey getting over a breakup that happened forever ago but please keep reading, there’s so much more you just don’t understand, i can give you receipts, quotes, i want you to feel what i feel, i want you to know that i— but i— i hope that you’re—

so i don’t know where these sentences were going or what the point is. the only reason i didn’t kill myself was because i wanted to graduate on time. well shit, i’ve got six weeks before i can officially fuck my entire life up. but i’m happy, right? i take long drives because the sunshine leaves a gentle smile on my face, not because i’m desperately searching for a distraction or a reason to keep going.

i don’t think i’ll ever find another person like you. i hate to quote that song that’s like “you’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you,” cuz fuck, that’s exactly what i’m trying to say. kicking, fighting, biting with the brick wall with absolutely clue i’m even here. well, it does, its fucking ignorant as shit. but that brick wall “loved” me, right? it “loved” me. it made me feel “loved” or whatever chemicals come with that. and that’s what i want again. he’ll take you in and make you think you can stop taking your antidepressants and then he’ll absolutely fuck your life over. and he just. gets away with it. and it comes out in all the worst ways possible. can you tell i’m resentful? its because i love dragging things out but i try to blame it on a desire to be an artist. some shit i’m not even good at.

this was supposed to end forever ago. but you don’t even remember. was there a point? was there a reason? no. you wanted to be beautiful and this is what you got.

predators - poetic explanation of falling in love (with me)

someone’s going to crack and i hope it isn’t me. we’re circling each other through circuits and panes of glass, we’re staring each other down through the rear view mirrors of our cars. its a game of chicken on opposite sides of a two way road. we are these fucked up pen pals. they told me to pick up an out of blue phone call, and i can only imagine you’re the one on the other end. and i may not pick up, i won’t recognize the number. but i might, i’ve spent some time trying to remember all the digits but i always got distracted. sixty two something. a seven, a six, maybe a three.

you know this isn’t your best work. i know exactly which words you added in as an afterthought, things that you insisted fit right there but ideas that could have been left in the shadows. you’re convinced you loved me. you handed over pieces of yourself. i told you from the beginning, this was a terrible idea. purple night under the popcorn ceiling stars, hand in hand eventually became bodies intertwined. you know how to make the chemicals flare up, make us feel like we can stop taking our antidepressants and feel like this could never end. i used to pass by married couple’s dimly illuminated windows at night after dropping you off, and i thought, they aren’t even feeling what i am feeling. i am the only one that has ever experienced love. but they’re just chemicals that flare up when you kiss enough, have enough late nights resting together. i feel a little less special now that we’re broken up. i realize we were just like every other set of lovers. led to the same demise as the rest of them.

someone’s going to crack and it won’t be me. and even if you called, you’d ask me, “what is your problem?” and i might shrug. i guess i’m on a mission to destroy the nothing that’s left. destroy everything beyond repair so we can never repeat this again.

its my turn to be angry.

sure, i’ve moved on but i’m allowed to revisit these feelings for some sick ass journal entry. its healthy to take my anger out on something that cannot be hurt anymore, right? and yeah, i know you read this sometimes. but that’s your problem. you know what you’ll read and what you’ll feel when you open this up. don’t know why i end everything with an explanation, an apology, and i just don’t know how to tidy up the frays on the end of this ribbon.

haven't been writing lately. traded living in my head for living outside this body.

future past:

because its everything, no, everything was never the deal. shut the door on terrible times. my shoes are an altar: remembrance: the things i love. can i trust you? would you lie to me? i wish i could disappear into the ground. be wiped from everyone's memory. i was never here, i never existed. maybe i'll wake up. i don't remember my first out of body experience. i don't remember my last. its amazing, the things you miss when you aren't paying. paying attention. i'm not ready for the questions. the stares. the comments. i've faced enough alienation in my life, and i don't need more. i don't enjoy it. but i worship it: alienation. he gave me words, no, he took me by the neck, threw me against a wall, and shoved it down my throat. and i will worship it. do i tell her? should i wait until i'm older? would you lie to me? i run in these circles. its your choice: my diary is an open book and you can decide if you want to know everything about me. its a tv series, you can't miss an episode unless you want to be lost. i'm the only fan of this one, i may be the only one that fully understands my story. my references. i may be the only one to ever read my writing in its entirety. someday i want to help the kids. not because i am good at comforting, but because i can show them there is hope for the future. i want to be what i've never had. growing up is terrifying, and all i see are unhappy adults. not just you, mom. its everyone. everyone's miserable. i can't spend the rest of my life wandering dead mall halls, sunny "self care days" drag on for years, and before you know it, i've wasted my life on never growing up. they tell me to be a kid now. i'm already feeling the stress of someone far older than me. and all i can do about it is lay idle in bed. she says i'm depressed. its not something i'm new to, but its something i'm beginning to fully realize the extent of its ass kicking abilities. showering isn't a chore for everyone. getting out of bed isn't dreadful for everyone. friends aren't terrible. i miss that glorious time when i loved my friends. now it feels like haven't been loved in years: i don't know what it is with you and the joy you suck out of my life all while making me think you're the best thing thats ever happened to me. don't feel sorry for me, i've never been better. i feel exhausted just getting out of bed and crossing my bedroom. i don't know how i'm still functional. i'm barely keeping it together. but maybe someday i'll be something. maybe i'll look back on this and think: realize: i'm delusional. the most beautiful thing ever is how these words withstand the years of seasons changing, wind battering the shit out of me, golden, heat, sub-zero. these are just glimpses of feelings turned thoughts turned words. maybe this is who i really am. thirty years from now i'll be on the same hamster wheel in my head, running in these same circles. peace: is a boat on the atlantic ocean. 50°f. overcast day. me and kafka ride up the shore, canadian water. back home theres vinyls. stonewall. silence. but for now i'm a---

i find its a lot easier to understand my window of tolerance nowadays than i ever have before. i think its funny: i can look back and see when i was thinking rationally rather than when i wasn't. and its all thanks to different circumstances. being overwhelmed isn't an excuse to be an asshole, however, being overwhelmed is an excuse to be an asshole. honestly, i'm transcribing every word in my head as it comes. and you eat this shit right up. god, am i a disillusioned rockstar already? god, i'm so tired. god, are you real? rocks and stars, hell, the rockstars say you aren't. someone outta put a bullet in his head. for now i'm twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty and its only a matter of time before you're crossing country borders to run from what you're doing. soon everyone will know. you go against all the ethos, pathos, and logos, or maybe just ethics. its. a grey conversation.

disintegration of platonic love

for now, the day i’ve feared the most is here. i’ve tried not to think about how college is the end of high school friendships, how the moment i realized i could love again it’s about to disintegrate, how i cried on the phone with you six hours away, how nothing ever lasts. i’m not homesick, i am home.

i miss you.

the face and the body doesn’t count, i want the thoughts in your head and the feelings you experience and the shit you say to be closer to me. i want you in my passenger seat again.

i worry about him. i wish i didn't but i care too much. and i didn't know someone could care back.

and i should know better.

maybe he was right, love is the worst but its worth it for the good things it brings you.

driving an impala was so much cooler in 1958 (but so were lobotomies)

sometimes i have moments where i think no one could be capable of caring for me except you, remember that time you surprised me with london fogs at the park? yeah, no one’s ever thought of me like that before. and i know there are people that care for me but comfort radiates from you, like maybe you’re the only one that really truly cares about me. sorry i got so high the other night i said i was in love with you, which maybe isn’t totally wrong but you knew i was high. you never spoke about it again. but i so desperately want to tell you i deeply appreciate you so much i may love you. but i think that would scare you off. you don’t talk to me so much anymore, you’re so busy doing shit i tell you is stupid.

i want to believe you’re just busy but i wonder if you’re distancing yourself from me. it wouldn’t be the first time.

i miss you. but i’ll give you the distance you didn’t ask for.

i haven’t made any friends. i don’t remember how to and i don’t really care enough. its all fun and games until it's saturday night, i’ve got nothing better to do that to lay in cemeteries and get high until i’m too cold to take it anymore. i love the old gravestones. decomposing bodies are underneath me. i wonder what their lives were like. what they looked like. what they did. who they knew. what they believed. and me? i’m a loser with nowhere to go and no one to talk to. here i lay, pretending there’s another warm body next to me, hands interlaced, speaking to me. but i don’t get that. no, why should i? he keeps asking me if i’m making friends. i don’t remember how to make friends, all i did was get taken in and i lost people as i aged. kept in touch with people who could buy me drugs, kept in touch with those who would remember to invite me out for lunch. but what does it matter? i’ll be out of town soon.

this past weekend i thought about doing it for good this time. the fear right before i do it always sobers me up. i don’t know why suicidal ideation is such a concern with the medical professionals, i’m just a sad confused boy. forty five minutes isn’t enough for you to get to know me.

i hate it when i begin to notice parallels between you and all i want to forget. am i noticing red flags or am i being paranoid? am i asking for too much? are my standards too high? god, what’s normal? you know me better than i do, you spell my name out and all it means to you, to me. you give me words for the facade i’ve subconsciously fabricated. you help me realize i am constantly living in fight or flight mode. i’m so good at this, i don’t even realize i’m putting it up. maybe this is all the therapists want: to be so good at coping no one know it kills you every time you wake up in the morning.

she talked him into leaving me. she’s playing a popularity game, she’s so lost and confused. she does all these things and think’s she’s so good at what she does and believes her words are the only words that matter, boy she won’t survive a minute after graduation. i’m waiting for everyone to realize she’s fucking crazy. it sounds like i’m not the first she’s shunned, i doubt i’ll be the last. what goes so wrong in your childhood that you feel the need to overcompensate like this? i hate the sickly show you put on, you want the whole world to know you’re happy and in love, charming the whole goddamn world, but god, i know you aren’t anything you pretend to be. everything makes me feel so. goddamn. sick.

take another drag off this stale cigarette.

if college is about reinventing yourself, then god, i’m unrecognizable from two years ago. i escaped that hell hole, i never thought i’d see light at the end of the tunnel. the first round was just me trying to recover, but i got caught up in lust and depression. second round, i’ve never been better. i’ve never experience pure joy, this is all just an act. keeping up with lies because i cannot handle being caught in an act. i don’t know what next year will bring, if i’m surrounded by a bunch of dirty business majors, am i going to turn into a bootlicker too? will i be able to put up with another two years of alienation? i’ve never wanted to get married or have kids, maybe i don’t need $100k a year, entry level position. i’m going to be so far behind as it is.

i don’t know where you went or where these sentences were leading.