Suicide Sunday

Sunday always feels like the last day of the week

even though it’s the first

the predeccesor of what is to come as you carry on

through all of the days that you don’t want to live

working your way back to Friday

just so you can fall back into bed as you wait for Saturday

but Saturday is over so quickly

that it almost feels like Sunday.

Have You Tried Turning It Off And Then Back On Again?

I have been hard wired
to crave neglect

Programmed to apologize
when I’m being abused

From the first girl
that took the time to learn my name

To the last boy
that told me he loved it

All I’ve known
is dejection

And when I’m finally free of it
longing starts

It has me running back
to the same dull pain

I’ve been forced to love.

One More Time

I don’t know who I am

and I don’t know where you are

but I’m calling for you in the dark

hoping that you can hear me

while you’re calling back

wishing that I would listen.

And we both stand, watching

a vicious cycle of tearful apologies

and broken promises

pounding on the only door

that stands to keep us apart.


The door that I used

to lock you out.


I’ll Only Give Up, When You Give In

I wonder if you think that I

am as witless as I feel,

falling to my knees and begging you for forgiveness

and purpose;

never realizing that when we first met

you had given to me all of the blatant certainty

I would ever need.

I wonder too, If I’ve ever made you as happy

as you have made me,

but then I think, “Of course,

there was I time that I must have.”.

Even though, I know I haven’t.

That realization, although sober, biting,

has never,  will never

stop me from trying.

Maybe that is just another facet

that makes us different,

but more likely,

it is the only thing about the two of us

that is the same.


An Open Letter To A Closed Addiction

Everything about me

makes me long for you,

and every long day

makes me miss those fleeting moments

we shared together.

Every tear I shed

reminds me

of the ones you wiped from my face

and as the pain gets a little worse

I try not to remember

how you made it better.

Every word I write

is pushing you away

so for now

I’ll be the one thats new

and you can be weathered.


Hiding The Truth From Even Ourselves

Hey, how have you been?

(I’ve missed you)

I’ve been good.

(I’m a mess)

Yeah, It’s been awhile.

(I’ve thought about you everyday)

What are you doing these days?

(Tell me you haven’t moved on)

Oh, that’s great.


Me? Yeah, nothing serious though.

(No, not since you)

Yeah, it was good to see you too.

(Don’t Go)

There Is No Wrong Answer Unless That Answer Is That There Are Wrong Answers

You know that feeling you get,

the one in math class when you’re solving problems

and the answers are coming so easily to you

that you have to stop and think,

“I must be doing this wrong.”?


Yeah that one.


Thats exactly how I feel

every time I finish a poem,

but then I remember that writing is subjective

and there really isn’t a right or wrong way to do it.


YoU CAn WritE AnYTHinG aNd aNyWAy yOU WanT.


No one can tell you it’s wrong because it will always be right to someone

even if thats just you.