painted

I used to spend hours trying to draw the perfect, atomically correct heart.

Measuring every hemisphere with the tips  of my fingers.

But I could never get it right, because every heart is extremely unique. 

Extremely Different.

Your chest is like an empty canvas

And You are painting your heart beat onto an abandoned master piece.

little by little, creating a heart of your own.

Letting others paint some of it for you, because you can't do it on your own.

Some people leave strokes of beauty

others leave streaks of pain.

I'm in my garage drinking a cherry coke with the word REGRET written across my forehead

I sit here hoping you will come back

and finish the painting you started 

and I can finish mine

but I think you found a new artist to paint your heart

someone with a steadier hand.

And I'm sorry for the mess

 my hands have never been able to paint fast enough to keep up with my mind.

It's always been a little disconnected.

Someone once told me my heart was a beautifully painted storm. 

But he was afraid of the thunder. 

Swirls of black and blue turn into something I carry between my rib cage and something that pounds with my lungs. 

Breathing out paint chips with pain and with love. 

You have burns all over your lungs and your heart, you told me it's because you have been to hell, twice.

But I think it's just because you like to play with fire. 

we all just want to paint as many hearts as we can.

And we want someone to fall in love with our masterpiece.

We want our artwork to be admired.

like it should.

Our hearts may be missing some pieces,

but we're still okay. still beating.

Our hearts are like ripped jeans and pocket tees. 

Like cold coffee. 

There is paint stained on all my clothes and my hands

And it probably won't wash off for days 

but I love it because it is my art.

Because It is my heart.

Things Like Nature

This is for the trees.

Giving us hope for something higher.

swaying with the moonlight and our laughter.

something to hang onto.

 

This is for the snow.

The color of her lips and the way you fell in love with her.

I hope you're holding hands by Christmas eve.

So thank you to the snow for giving me something to run from.

 

This is for the clouds.

a small sanctuary for lonely eyes.

a place where daydreams fly like kites.

keeping us young.

 

This is for the rivers.

running deep into my blood and leaving nothing but beauty.

a place to let go and leave things forgotten.

somewhere to kick pebbles and the past.

 

This is for the mountains.

A place to scream.

to fear nothing but adventure.

to crave fresh air.

 

 I have always thought nature was for the lovers.

but, maybe it's for the loveless.

giving us something to hold onto, to run from, to keep us young, to let go of, and to crave.

a place to find our hearts.

 

I'm not good with words, but I think I found  a place where black tongues and white lips can fall in love.

Look around you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Inches

Inches are important.

Like how many inches there are between me and you.

And the inches between my rib cage and my heart.

And we won't ever forget about the inches around our waists

A Simple measurement that determines how far apart lips are and how close you come to crying every night.

 

I still remember the first time I looked down at my hands and saw the distance between the veins and my bones.

The distance from creativity to depression.

It was somewhere between inches and feet, and far from centimeters.

But we still counted in inches.

 

We measured the inches at football games

And the inches we have gained from running for home.

And There is about a thousand more inches for the gap in my head.

explaining all those lost thoughts.

 

I can feel life slipping through my fingertips by the inches.

One inch until graduation

 two more inches until college.

Three more inches until freedom.

And about 100 more inches for the ones who left us before they gained those inches.

 

I don't even want to count the inches between dreams and reality.

but, I want to know how many more inches until I will forget.

 

There are inches between Paris and Utah,

between me and god

and between smoke and beauty

 

but all I really care about is the inches between life and death.

Those are my inches.

 

Feels like Dying

it feels like I'm dying.

The clouds strung across the mountains look a little better

and the rain doesn't feel as cold because the long route home sounds like a good idea.

You would know.
You're dying too.
But to die, is to live.
And to live, is to die.

And I think we all need to learn how to live.
because on Sunday mornings we only care about the ones who are already gone.
We still care, but only when it's too late.

High School has always been a morgue,
it's where we learn to romanticize with death,
Dancing with it's kiss on our lips.
They taught us how to die, but not how to live.
They told us to notice death, not life.

But, we're different.
We use death to live.
Death is used to hold us, but we must learn to let it mold us.
A tool to form our still delicate lives.
Death's name has always burned the inside of our throats,
but not anymore.

If you're afraid to die,
you must be afraid to live.

it feels like I'm dying.
And that feels like living.