flatsound:

here’s a poem i did in april, one take recorded directly to cassette. please forgive the slip ups, it’s a bit tricky and was recited from memory. 

poem (april 22, 2012)
i’ll sit and pretend
i know someone at an intimate depth
it always makes me feel like shit in the end
because you’re only as good as the people you consider your friends

so i’ll watch an aching past surface, and now i’m half certain
that everyone who associates with me’s a bad person
because everyone who associates with me is as worthless 
now i finally understand what it means to lack courage
and at the end of the day it just defeats the damn purpose
to share the fruit of your knowledge while completely malnourished

now i’m trying to let go of the things that torture me inside
so congratulations, you’re cordially invited
to a small list of things that i normally would hide
high school, no comprehension of enough harm
codeine for numb hearts and patching up cut arms
but drinking cough syrup when you didn’t have a cough
is ironic, because in reality you’re sicker than you thought
but like hearing new music and being too scared to turn it up
virgin blood mostly told me to stop at the surface cuts
but sometimes i wouldn’t eat more than a couple bites
and sometimes i’d go a week and not sleep more than a couple nights
and sometimes i’d get so wrapped up in the “couple life”
when the “couple life” failed me the first couple times

so now i’m grateful that it seems stupid, and i’m grateful that i miss you
because the passed two years are something i’m glad i had to sit through
because now that i know what it means to be dead
i can start living again

fuck me, i can start living again
i can smell it when i breathe
i can feel it when you leave
i can start living again

so i’m leaving behind the people who said i wasn’t brave enough
wrote an album called “sleep” and realized it’s about waking up. 

flatsound:

i always liked how your hands looked
and not just in comparison to mine
they were an artists hands
calloused from building walls and
skin covered in clay that cracked as it dried
you see, i have two thoughts
before touching someones hands
are they soft? i hope not
not too soft
because four years ago i fell into a hole
so as soon as they touch
i wonder if they’re strong enough
to help pull me to the top
and are they cold? god i hope so
because mine are so cold
that anytime someone touches them
they ask me if something’s wrong
i know that most people have walls but
i just don’t think mine are the same
you are hiding away
i am trying to escape
i am inside of a cave
trying to retain the memory
of the last time that i saw the light of the day
and i told you that where i am felt permanent
and you told me to give it time because nothing is
but the minute our hands touched i felt something click
because they were strong
with the force to dig your nails into the earth
and make the world suddenly stop
and they were cold
like the metal gears and glass casing
constructing a clock
and i know that i’m not moving fast enough
i know that so much time has already passed us up
and i know that it must be frustrating to stand in front
of someone who keeps promising you that they’ll get better
without the evidence to back it up
but you have to trust me
the past is ugly
but i’ll make it to the other side as long as i know
that when i get there i’ll have somebody
please, i know that i can do this
i just need another half a month
i can pull through this
i just need our hands to touch

you said that you would always look for me in the crowd
with the same eagerness that a child sifts through the lost and found
searching for anything that felt missing
never considering what would happen the moment you stopped
as if the moment you’re not looking for an object
is the moment it stops being lost
i get it, you were cold
but i wanted to be more than just a coat
clinging onto a body that i was never constructed to hold
or a mirror to look into when your reflection
stopped looking like a person that you know
i know that you know the feeling of new clothes
but do you know what it’s like
to sit at the bottom of a box every night
replaying the fantasy of cold hands reaching inside
to take you home

you said you felt lost when you were found out
the death of our hands on your couch
was the birth of discovery
that someone elses hands
could feel cold
and in that sudden rush
i thought of all the hands
that could help me build a home
and none of them looked like yours