day thirty one.

a continuous sentence of thought about what i did and have to do and one of them is that i recently received my group making package from free tibet so i should surely get started on that soon after i finish the illustrating and writing for my free verse personal context paper and such other school things school tingz this has ben update number one hundred twenty and i still need to email cherita i am awful forgetful when it comes to such tedious and simple tasks usually the simplest things such as adding in a name for a new friends phone number are the hardest to do and the easiest
to put off.

day thirty.

she tells you how
to feel
rather than
making you feel
anything.
her voice
strains
to lift the pages
but the poems lie
flat
weighed down with
their cliches.

day twenty nine.

feeling strange
looking at the same bed cover
that covered me
in a different part
of my
life.

a younger part of
my life
but not the only part of
my life.

the only part is over
and now there
is just the filler
the unfiltered
filler
with which
i can do as i like
so long as i
keep filling
my lungs
and
twisting the rules.

the mundane and
the normal
for those who are
not
will kill
them
just as
the memories of times lost
can.

day twenty eight.

it tastes
better
when it's bright out,
better
when it's outside a
library
(or inside one),
better
hidden in a mcdonalds
at three in the morning,
better
when forgotten in a
universities' bathroom,
better
when it's in public
on the sidewalk
going along on
no errands with you.

it tastes better than when
it's not free,
yes it tastes
much better:
broken rules taste better.

you can only give A's, not receive.

i know
what kind of teacher you are-
will be -
when you get the chance
(assuming anyone will let you in).

plain face
doesn't hurt
but plain soul
does.

you'll enjoy doing the marking
and telling others
what to do,
but
always mediocre.
a job.
you will never understand the kids.
the kids will never understand you
and why you chose
to be a teacher
unlike
i do.

day twenty seven.

the too straight teeth
with too little gums
with the help of a tongue
yap on.

'there's no time to do anything,
ANYTHING.
i can't wait to get home and
do NOTHING.'

only those poor big teeth
that take over the face
(quite easily)
won't get to rip apart chicken
tonight.
the female creator of them
is too tired
to go all out
making a chicken dinner
on fridays.

the teeth are sick of it.
i am sick of the teeth.

stirred then shaken please.

when you remember everything
clearly
in the other world
you visit daily
or nightly
or on long bus rides
the poems,
the colours,
what they said
breaking up
and breaking in
the snow
the music
it ends up all being different
when you look back on it
in the other world
(you also occupy daily
- most of the time)
your memory have been stirred by
the false bugs
you have planted in yourself,
which shakes your worlds up.

maybe nothing is remembered clearly
ever
even if the message is clear.

day twenty six

24 and drunk
with nothing to do
no faith in the place you were born
(the whole damn place,
all of it
every inch
except for maybe in the middle of the
rain forests)
laying on the stains
from last night's binge
and the rodent's parade
around in hidden places
always keeping you company
when you are alone
(or not even home).
there is hope only
because you are young.
the timer goes on.

day twenty five.

(late)
band practice without
our own music.
friendships to new levels
above and below
the tide comes in and out
the storms control it but
blow over.
not a mark left on the shore
or on the surface
of the body.

document: poopetry.

I call all my writing poopetry.


because it’s something I do everyday,
and something i pull out of my ass.

self cannibalism.

I chew the inside of my mouth
too much.
it’s the hobby
that happened to become
a habit.

one hour to go.

typing with one hand
on a bus
with a tea.

I have finally found my mind
while keeping it lost;
it’s always better to keep half of
a loose, lost mind.
but my body has had to pay
for this rebalancing
between lost and found
the give I had to get
and now has
a sinus clogging -
a sickness where I have
been cured
by never allowing myself to be cured.

I wont ever give up
on the passion.
you shouldn’t either.

day twenty four.

sitting on the carpet
talking
with friends
unevenly made cards
and too much alcohol
(though never enough)
might be doing nothing.


but there is
nothing
i'd rather be doing
than this
nothing.

you can change anything except the ones who give up.

I bored my favourite
band to death
talking about death.
but he had lost his passion,
so he was already dead
anyways.

there's cancer in the sky.

The painted sky
that no one could paint
that no one should paint
(you could bever get the colours right).
the yellow
and cornflower
and sky
and rose
with violet.
but it was tainted
by the worm,
the tube of
smoke
that ran through it;
ran through it
like a snake
reminding us all 

of how we
fucked up.

day twenty three.

the tag of earl grey
coming out of my cup
a symbol of my taste in tea
a symbol of the disposable
the frivolous
the labels we wear
and how hot we think we
are.