My first rule for living life:

Never believe everything anyone tells you about anything. Especially pastors, politicians and parents. They’re merely warning you about the bullshit propaganda they’ve been led to believe. Nothing more.

Every single time,
a girl has had
an “epiphany,”
it’s turned badly for me.

But that’s okay,
it’s fine, really.
I don’t mind,
I don’t really care.

I’m a bad influence
on everyone
in my general
circle of friends.

Fuck love, it’s a pit
of misery and painful
memories, one that
I find myself in too often.

I’m tired and broken
in ways that cannot be
explained merely
with simple words.

But that’s okay,
Let God take your wheel,
I’ll drink myself
into oblivion, again.

Whiskey and scotch
are the only constants
that aren’t swayed
by your convictions.

Let your holy book
and your perceptions
of divine entities lead you,
it’s all the same bullshit.

The only heaven I’ll ever see
is a bottle of bottom-shelf
bourbon and the lack of
your warm body besides mine.

Do you remember when
you broke my trust?
No? I suppose you wouldn’t
It has been a while

And I have been limping
through shallow days of
intoxicated misery
ever since.

Shorter moments of sincerity
and sober epiphanies
in the harshest light of
summer’s mornings.

Just when I think I’ve found
all the scattered pieces
of myself, dear, the memories
of your scarred arms return.

I’d swim the ocean to understand
it’s depth, I’d swim until I was
out of breath. But never will I
I lay my trembling hand on yours.

The little devil
on my shoulder
is the part of me that’s
still in love with you.

I find it
funny
in a wistful
kind of way

how we’re
all just
wandering
around

looking for
meaning or love
or just a reason
to be here.

We cling to each
other like a sailor
clings to driftwood
when he’s lost at sea.

But you can be
my anchor, root
me in place among
the tide and the waves.

But you can be
my ship, carry me
high above these
deep, rough waters.

But you can be
my compass, divining
direction, leading
me unharmed to land.

But these days,
I tread unfamiliar
oceans, currents and
winds and swells.

I’d swim the ocean
to understand its depth.
Hell, I’d swim it all
until I ran out of breath.

If only to, one day,
see your smiling eyes
and warm hands greet me
safely from the shore.

I am,
fundamentally,
no stranger 
to hopelessness

and I find it
hard to breathe
without you
here.

But here’s my
conscience,
always unclear,
always questioning

and the fear: the
constant,
ever-present
all-consuming fear.

Whether of winter gusts
or bitter ends or 
simply the lack
of you by my side.

My voice shakes
in stuttered phrases
and I’ve breathed far
more lies than truth.

Whiskey-poisoned
and sick with nostalgia,
smoking cigarettes
into the endless night.

Perhaps
it’s my penance, 
whether self-imposed
or divinely wrought.

I
don’t
know
anymore.

Living is
surprisingly
bad for
your health.

Was it love,
or just the 
summer heat

that caused
our skin to blush?

The salt on
our wet skin
and the ocean spray

caught in the
lengths of our hair?

Was it love,
or some
cheap mimicry

like everything
else in Los Angeles?

Southern California
is weird,
and so is love

but I’m content
to smell the sea
on your breath.

Happiness is the smell of good coffee when you walk into a room.

I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter.

Yeah, so
I’ve
read
Kerouac

and
wanderlust
runs through
these veins.

Yeah, I feel like
a wayward,
wandering,
rambling soul.

and my feet
ache to tread
unfamiliar
ground.

But I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter

because your
kiss has
always felt
like home.

She is the
kind of girl
a man has to
think twice about

before falling in 
love with.

Because
he knows,
once he does,
he always will.