.

this phone is tapped.

you know what?
youre right.
i dont know shit.
i spend too much money on
over priced jeans and used cds
and ridiculous amounts of alcohol.
i dont know about his disorder
and i make myself look foolish.
i dont know shit.

youre right.
i talk too much.
i spend too much time talking about all the things
i want to do and too little time doing them,
i spend too much time talking.
and i dont know shit.

youre right.
i worry too much.
i ask too many questions and
pretend that i know all the answers.
i worry too much that the answers are wrong.
i worry too much that
i talk too much and
i talk so much because
i dont know shit.

i dont know everything.
i dont know anything.

i wax poetic on liberals,
and the way sunshine makes my feet feel,
and life longevity,
and how i dont have any girl friends anymore.

and youre right.
i expect sympathy for the problems i created.
and i dont know shit.

but i do know that
i am tired of faking happiness. and i am tired of faking depression.
i am tired of faking emotion.
i am tired of living in a copy of a copy of copy of a copy
of a copy of a copy.
i am tired. will someone please wake me up?
i will love you forever.
i will like you for always.

.

past the library at 10:42


a call at eight for adventure
whispers of slightly irrational thoughts
watch the twilight lights twinkle
off excess water on my cheeks
heater hums though said heat does burn
laughter from skeptics cant kill the thrill
darkness surrounds when no cover is given
shoes and shirts and pants quickly away
running fast through wet grass
road disappears between buildings
over rough asphalt bare feet underneath
scraped and itching, lungs aching
this is what we like to do.

.

white trash love song.

its a white trash love song
that i sing to you
about fighting parents
and too much cheap beer and someones underwear showing.

its a white trash love song
where the refrain
contains
only sex in cars and lacks a good hook, baby.

its a white trash love song
where mall wages are evidence of our ages
and a fancy dinner ends up being
a super-sized
#2... no onions.

and though
it all started
during hot summer months
when for once my brain was fried
from too much sun
not too much of some unpronounceable illegal
substance,

and though it was because
i got you drunk on PBR
and forced you to deal with me, with us, with distance too much,

it is these long
cold
winter
days
that i spend
thinking solely of you
and the spring to come

that i appreciate
white trash
messy bedrooms
and quick
orgasms
and
arguing
about
whos
being
meaner
today.