This is how you solve writers block (Letters to myself pt I)

I lit some incense
because I'm sensitive to some senses.
I'm probably making that up.
Probably to explain something that cannot be explained.
Not all answers can be found,
Not all answers show up
dressed in black
looking fabulous
holding a note
that says
"you're right."

In fact,

Answers show up
drunk.
or
angry.
or
....

you get it.


and if you don't,
you're probably lying
and if you aren't,
congratulations.


You're still lying.

I hate it when people say that.

"you're lying."
I'm not unique in this thought,
this is not colossal news.
I think everyone hates that.
just like cockroaches
probably don't enjoy
being the shit end of a joint
and also a cock.
I imagine cockroaches
probably try to dress in tuxedos
smoke Cuban cigars
and cry
when the butterflies fly by.
and if anyone ever called me a liar
or a cockroach
I would say


actually.
        you.
              are.


WHAT THE FUCK AM I WRITING ABOUT

good question.
                       I need an answer.


         
         :)

I wish smiley faces
were answers
in the real world.

here.
here are some answers.
here are some reasons.
here.

something fancy
something spectacular
like the time I survived that one...thousand times.
Like that one time
I woke up
during summer
    blinked for a second
and ended up here.

go.

I should have told you about these hands

I have love birds
for hands,
they are mated
for life.
They stay beautiful
for life,
they bring one
another life,
they clasp tightly
together at night.
They know
left from right,
wrong
from
right
I keep these hands
just under my hips,
which are under my lips
and my chest.
They send echoey signals
to the ocean,
and hope that a lighthouse shines back.

(I keep marking this spot with x's
and hope that the treasure comes back.)

I leave
feathers from my wings
in the back cars
of better things.
I send
salty swear words
into the slightest of glass bottles.
And float them out
with weathered hopes.
I hope
you can sound it all out.
I hope
you never found out,
that I
remembered you in a dream
like a
rotten apple I had once picked from a tree.
I saw
a worm eating its fill
and when it was done
I think
the apple had been killed.

but unlike the death of a strawberry
this apple
cannot bleed.
And Still,
a worm is a worm
and it needs to feed.
absolutely.
like the love I feel-
Call me factual
because this is real.
and if you've been half
and if you've been whole
you know what it means
to have a heavy soul
but not just heavy
I'm talking
.
.
.
.
....sinking

Started with all that 3 a.m thinking
when dreams are told like jokes,
and I'm figuring out
how much candle is left
until my house smells real.
And every song that comes on is an absolute reminder
that everything that's ever been disastrous
is lurking inside us.

but that's so many stories.
and this is just one,
I'll tell you I'm broken
I'll tell you I'm done

Broke.
as in broken.
Just like the boat
we sat in
when we were out smoking.
just like the moat
we swam across
when you told me
all was lost...


I should have told you about these hands.

instructions on flight

I think all that matters
is that I have seen the sun.
But when I start thinking like that
I often run
run from those ideas
which melt me.
Remember me?
I am the hot temepered
chili pepper
soaked in vanilla
and grated in your granola.
I am the monster
tap dancing
upstairs
above your apartment
until 3 am.
I think all that matters
is that I am laughing.
I think that all that matters is regularly
crapping.
napping
snapping
rapping
bapping
lapping
flapping

YES,
keep flapping.
because that
is
how
YOU
fly.

The one about the sky falling

I found a fraud 

sitting 

with his lips

edged

to the bone of his knee.

he said 

he enjoyed 

the fragrant smell 

of misunderstandings.

Suddenly

Colliding

with the pale instance

of love

resurrecting moon beams  

in the mornings

(which danced, and streaked across his lips)

the sky fell. 

I tie my curtains

I grew up
hating the idea
of growing up.
So I turned my feet into dandelions
and planted them at the base
of a grandmother oak
behind
my grandmothers home.
Beneath the soil
were the bones
of the birds
I had accidentally set free.
I experienced
worlds
of experience.
before experience was necessarily even necessary.
That child mind,
that short-lived
half second

when I was a wild flower -
I was a flower
that was late to tea
with someone
who could turn me rose.

I became behaved.

I was behaved.

   be-halfed.

  and by the way
 on behalf of my other life
    that other half-
       
I remember I was born to matter.

All of this occurred to me
before I became a full grown weed
while you recited casual poems
before you arrived with casual knives.
Yes, you came to admire the flower
I bore
before my wishes could scatter
You remembered I was just matter.
you held your breath
for as long as you could
Until you turned blue,
Until you became the kid in you
Until you became the cloud in you.
You
disappeared in the skyline.
and I remembered
we were born to scatter.

And here I am,
tying my curtains
opening a window
    wishing
a giant bird
would take me
and use me to build a nest.
A nice Dandelion nest.

The first

you spun yourself into a flowery nest
made with the sun
you gathered from the freckles on my chest.