Im not very good with goodbyes,

This one is for the school boys and the school girls,

And for the English teacher who lived.

The empty air around the Eiffel tower was stagnant,

I could feel it sticking to my skin,

and strangling my neighbors dog.

Last night I cut my wrist,

I cut my wrist and bled words from my mouth,

I told her how much I wanted to be with her,

and why I stopped writing in all CAPS.

She put out her cigarette with a handful of dreams,

and threw them into the sand.

It caught the attention of that eerie homeless,

and he screamed.

Something about a crystal ball,

something about the Eiffel tower being made half of glass,

and half of a cup of brandy.

He said that in the 1920's

we didn't have to pretend,

we could all go to the carnival,

an ride the rides.

we didn't have to drink to keep friends,

he was talking about her,

and even though her cheeks were that rosy,

and she didn't talk very much she had magic powers.

This girl, she was wearing a dress 

and was covered head to toe in mini chandeliers,

she stood on a tower of non existent greatness.

she said she had dreams of the coast,

driving up and down,

city to city.

Only stopping to pick up tourist,

who had finally found out what it meant to be alive.

people who came to Paris for Paris,

and stayed because they had other places to go,

but wanted to keep the words draining from a broken heart,

into the leather soles of there shoes.

And this is me,

desperately veering from side to side,

sightless, mindless, and caring for nothingness 

on this pathway to poverty and social defeat.

And this is me,

and the tourist I met,

and the Parisians that fed me until I couldn't be fuller.

And for Kyle Nelson,

The Prince of Paris,

the one man on earth who can teach creativity,

who can force me and my pen to create words,

and worlds, and Alaska, and Helen.

The one man who can make teenage boys cry for good reasons,

and make certain 17 year old girls show up to class on time,

can make you realize its OK to be up at 2:47 AM,

as long as you have a pen and blank spot on your arm to write.

When I grow up I want to be just like my Dad

I want to be just like Kyle Nelson,

Because he cares too much,

and didn't kill himself when he could've,

always spoke for himself,

even if its 3 AM,

when a Tweet would do,

because his wife wont listen,

and his heart needs a rest.

This is for Kyle Nelson,

Because he really did change my life.

 

 

Thank you for everything Nelson,

-Tim Thompson

Because we cant know everything,

I have dreams,
of Paris, of Alaska, and of Helen.


I care about certain things to the point of extremely high anxiety,
and other things, I can ignore, pretend they dont exhist.
Usually they are thing I should care about, it scares me.


If you really knew me, you would know that I have been on a desperate venture to find neverland, and Im failing.


Theres this girl, I cant stop thinking about her, and I want to get this out towards the beginning, so here we go.
I just want to kiss you.


If you really knew me, you would know that as soon as I picked up this pen, every word, no matter how brilliant, poetic, cliche, unoriginal, brilliant, whatever. They all left me.


If you really knew me you would know that Im after honesty, and not much else.


If you really knew me you would know that my heart fell out of my chest long ago, and  I cant find it.


If you really knew me you would know that the Phantom of my basement is alot more convincing than my parents.
I dont know how much I like that.


If you really knew me, you would know that im never happy with the seasons,


when its spring I want fall,
when its summer I want fall,
when its winter I want fall,


And when it is fall, I fall.




If you really knew me, you would know that I spent a whole week hunting from a canoe,And I never left my house.


If you really knew me you would know that im sick of falling for every girl with curls and a sundress.


If you really knew me, you would know that Helen matters more to me than even my family.
which is ok, because I finally found out "who" she is.


If you really knew me you would know that I depend more on my friends, and empty film cameras, than God and I focus more on nothingness and nature, and I dont care what my parents say nearly as much as I should.


If you really knew me, youd know that im perfectly happy with who I am,
But all I want is to change.


For better or for worse.


Dear Perfection,
Your never going to happen. 
Please stop sleeping with all my friends.
love,
nom

Dear Helen,

Im sorry  that Ive been fake.

Im sorry, that I don't know you as well as I thought.

Because If you choke on fake tears, One day you'll wake up drowning.

Burn holes in my chest,
and drip paint down my face.

whoever you once were ran away,
and took the silence with them.

Silence left, and took everything with it.

This just might be, the last letter I ever write to Helen. I hope this is the last letter I ever wright to Helen.

I can still smell the burning cigarette on my skin,
But it isnt enough.
I will never be convinced,
that you held me so tight.


Today it was 84 degrees outside,
you and I were supposed to go on a picknick in the park.
I wanted to hold your hand,
and all you could do was hand me you cigarettes.
And when you called me on the phone today I could sware I never felt so many razors cut my wrists.

You talked about the first time we smoked together
and your trip to Alaska,
And thats when I hung up.

Helen,
If you could please stop treating me like this that would be great,
because I dont really care if he has a new motorcycle,
or tea recipe I should try.

I care about you,
your ash stained fingers,
and that polaroid we took together last fall.

I knew you could tell something was on my mind,
Darling dont worry,
really its nothing,

Please dont worry about me,
my note book,
or the crystalized tears left inside.

Darling when Im without you,
I cant think of metaphors and other creative things,
just this window,
and the tears that are dripping down the sides.

And Helen I know this all sounds depressing,
But please forgive me,
Because the clouds are truly beautiful today,
and that noose you tied
will top even the dullest knife
I stab into my chest.

Helen I really think that my depression,
and your anorexia would go well together.


We could move to france with eachother,
buy a small house,
fall asleep to silent movies,
and wake up to the sound of vespa scooters,
and the smell of fresh baked bread.

we could watch live music at small cafes,
and take lomographs of the Eiffel Tower.
Our lives would be filled with nothing that matters,
and everything we cared about.

Helen,
I called that old friend of your,
the one we ran into downtown,
the one with the boots.

When she picked me up,
I could smell vodka on her breath.

I remember that,
and we had a lovely dinner.

And now,
Im in the back of a motel,
in some city I dont even know the name of,
and im writing you these letters on the back of napkins.

Helen its 3 AM,
and that black crow over there
has the prettiest feathers ive ever seen,

I just wish you were here to see.

I think quite possibly your heart weighs more than the rest of your body, and trust me... Its not because its made of gold.

Blue Skies,

Green Grass,

Depressed Teenagers,

Highschool Love,

Love songs,
Love,
Love,
Love....


Maybe he'll get the girl in the end,

Or maybe he'll get in a car crash next week,
and the things he said to her last night,
will die along with him.

#Dishonesty

I dont have very many words right now,

I want the poetry slam to come back,
words are better out loud.

I think I might post something for real tomorrow,

today = Melancholy

dialogue, [ dahy-uh-lawg, -log]

di·a·logue

   /ˈdaɪəˌlɔg, -ˌlɒg/ Show Spelled [dahy-uh-lawg, -log] Show IPA noun, verb di·a·logued, di·a·logu·ing.

noun

1.

conversation between two or more persons.

2.

the conversation between characters in a novel, drama, etc.

3.

an exchange of ideas or opinions on a particular issue, especially a political or religious issue, with a view to reaching an amicable agreement or settlement.

4.

a literary work in the form of a conversation: a dialogue of Plato.

Some memorable conversations,

Exhibit A:

Bon Iver, For Emma For Ever Ago

Exhibit B:

Edward Sharpe, Home

Lastly,

Exhibit B:

(Coming Soon)

someone should mow the lawn,

The grass was so long,
and the sun was alot brighter
than it had been in a long time

The expressions we shared were meaningless,
they meant so much

The Laughing and the crying,
it was something so close to commical,
yet so tragic.

The way a clown feels when a herse drives past,
the strange aura of melancholy piano tunes,
the clatter of spilt cups of tea

It was sad and it was lonely,
I had never experienced something so beautiful,
so horrifying. So good.

So cold on my bones,
But so warm on my skin.

It was a beautiful experience,
you were wearing a beautiful dress,
my jeans were torn at the knee,

The grass was so long and the sun was so bright.

Vacancy,

 

Because sometimes its about what you don't write,

and the emotions you never want to feel again.

kitchen cabinets,

Just open up the cabinets,
and rip out my heart,

shatter the glass and look out the window to my left.

I see you and I see him,
hes wearing a wife beater and has tattoos,
your wearing a sundress and your hair is in curls.

I want to feel that ribbon tied in your hair,
I want to count every spot on your sundress,
and every freckle on your face.

Your in that filthy convertable of his,
his shirt is so dirty,
I never thought youd be caught with someone so disgusting,
I thought that I had taught you better.

Helen my Dear,
Read me like a book.
Im frantically typing these words on my new old typewriter,
im cutting them out out,
and im hiding them every where that I know you'll be.

Because all I want is for you to read them,
thats just the kind of guy I am.

Helen my darling give me a chance,
I sware Ill never love someone like I love you.

a haunting,

I went to this wonderful concert the other night,
and theres nothing I can really say to describe it,
and im sorry im not writing anything poetic,

but I feel after watching this,
youll understand why I feel anything I write
would be an inadequate portrayal of any emotions.
sorry it cuts off at the end.

MAX,

It was a rainy day in Portland Oregon,
And all I wanted
was to remember what it was like to be a kid again,
to build a fortress of blankets and forget everything.

My blankets used to matter.
They were enormous castles on a sunny day at the beach,

or an overcast afternoon in the foothills,
hunting rodents.
I remeber that day,
It was the first day I took a life.

My blankets are transforming,
my blanket draped castles are now over crowed cathedrals.

My blankets have turned to bricks.
Big bricks, beautiful red bricks, bricks surrounded by stained glass.

Red, Blue, Green, Yellow.

Mother mary is sitting there surrounded by my bricks,
trying to break free.
Because my blankets are now bricks,
and they are piling up. up. up.

And they are about to crash down hard,
about to crush my lungs.

Im preparing for my final exhale,
And I need to decide if im going to breathe out smoke,/
if Gods real and if she feels the same way about me,
if all this really matters, and if I want to wake up in the morning.

Maybe ill just keep from sleeping,
stand tall untill I crumble along with my bricks and my blankets.
I'll slowly turn to dust.

And I dont even know what comes after dust.

Thank you MAX,

feeling alone,

That sure is one beautiful picture,
the lense flare just right,
leaving your face a vacancy.

Your sundress draped past your waist.

Feeling alone in this prolonged winter,

tu es tout ce que je veux vraiment,
tout ce que j'ai besoin

You, are why I dont sleep at night.

qui êtes-vous?

worthless, smoke.

I can still smell the burning cigarette on my skin,
But it isnt enough.
I will never be convinced,
that you held me so tight.

A word about Alaska,

Its starts with, "I just want to be in Alaska"
thats the first hint that its no good.

I just want to be in Alaska,
I just want to be there while the smoke rises out of the cabins,
while the salmon and the trout fight over who can jump out of the water first,
only to be eaten by a bear.

I want Alaska and alaskan wolves,
I want Alaska and those large pine trees,
and those glacier filled lakes.
I want Alaska and craggy stones covered in moss,
those impossible snow filled roads.

I want Alaska and those fishnets,
I want Alaska and those cabins.

I want you, in that cabin,
wearing fishnet tights.

I never want to write a poem about sex.

But I want Alaska,
I want my escape,
and I want it now.

I found out what love is,
Love is Alaska,

and those tiny airplanes,
love is my moccosins and my peace pipe,
love is a rotting seal carcass on the beach.

it doesnt make sense to me,
but love is a rotting seal carcass on the beach,
and fishnet tights.



Love is a waste of time,

the carcass will leave nothing but bones,
the fishnets will snag on the bones and unravel,
and shes going to be depressed and hes going to talk,
and they're going to stare,
and shes going to stare back.

the bush pilots in the planes look down,
the triabl chiefs with there head dresses,
made of feathers,
feathers,
feathers.

They didnt need to find out what love means.
But I needed made up facts about Alaska,
I needed made up facts about Indian Chiefs.
I needed to dishonesty
to exlain the most honest thing I will ever know.

I needed Alaska.
I need Alaska.
And Im going to want alot more Alaska.
Im dreaming of a seal smoking a peace pipe,
And a bear dancing around a fire,

An Indian Chief dead on the beach,
with an arrow through his heart,
and a smile on his face.

Because thats what Love really is.

something you should check out,

I dont know how to do widgets,
and I apologize for that,
but I dont really think I need extra credit,

follow these links though...

Joel Barish,

http://baronvonbullshit-ridesagain.blogspot.com/

read all of them,
especially the ones that seem too long,
and the ones that have pretty pictures

Every one knows The Devastation Diaries,
All I can say is... Anatomically correct hearts.
Read on.

http://ankleswristselbows.blogspot.com/


and theres Emma Swan...
such a lovely style,
similar to the Deavastaion Diaries,
but not as dramatic.

http://nostalgicskylines.blogspot.com/


but really,
just read my blog,
because im conceated... if thats even how you spell it.

A jealous poet,

I have to decide on a poem that im jealous of,
one that im jealous of the poet who wrote it,
and on where the words are so outstanding,
and one that makes me want to cry.

Well here ya go,
Im sorry its not from our little book,
and im sorry I dont have much to say about it,
but every time ive read this its made me cry,
the words in this poem mean so much to me.

 

 

Once on a yellow peice of paper with green lines

he wrote a poem

and he called it "chops"

because that was the name of his dog

and thats what it was all about

his teacher gave him an A

and a gold star

and his mother hung it on the kitchen door

and read it to his aunts.

that was the year Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

and he let them sing on the bus

and his little sister was born

with tiny nails and no hair

and his mother and father kissed alot

and the girl around the corner sent him a

Valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant

and his father always tucked him in bed at night

and was always there to do it

once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem

he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season

and that's what it was all about

and his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

and his mother never hung it on the kithcen door

beause of the new paint

and the kids told him

that Father Tracy smoked cigars

and left butts on the pews

and sometime they would burn holes

that was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

and the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see santa claus

and the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed alot

and his father never tucked him in bed at night

and his father got mad

when he cried for him to do it

once on a paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

and he called it "Innocence: A Question"

because that was the question about his girl

and thats what it was all about

and his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because he never showed her

that was the year Father Tracy died

and he forgot how the end

of the Apostles's Creed went

and he caught his sister

making out on the back porch

and his mother and father never kissed

or even talked

and the girl around the corner

wore too much make up

that made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway

becuase it was the thing to do

and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly

that's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

and he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

because that's what it was really all about

and he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

and he hung it on the bathroom door

because this time he didnt think

he could reach the kitchen----

dormir, sofa, schlafen, sleep,

Maybe it was you I was writing about this whole time,

J'ai pense que vouse avez oublie de moi

11:11 PM

Je ne peux pas souhaiter plus,
Je viens de pleurer

11:26

12:06

12:12

3:00

Je serais endormi

3:14

4:27



Si j'ai utilisé le mot insomniaque

je serais sans originalité

Did you forget about me darling?

s'il vous plaît dites-moi ce n'est pas vrai

So you want to break someones heart,

Im here to tell you how,

step by step.

1st. The first, and the most important step to a broken heart,

is to wake up in the mornin... that means you have to fall asleep at night.

1st. The first and most important step to a broken heart is falling asleep at night,

but not just falling asleep, but taking hours and hours to fall asleep.

Think about everything, or think about nothing, this should take at least 3 hours.

1st. the first and most important step to breaking your heart,

is to fall for someone elses.

And I may not know a whole hell of alot, but I do know something of a broken heart.

here's my heart, I hope its good enough

I crack my heart over a burning skillet,
I attempt to serve it sunny side up,
my failed attempt,
turns to a pile of scrambled eggs.

I hand them over,
and what do I get in return?

too salty,
not enough cheese,
pass the pepper over here.

well,
I guess my heart just isnt good enough.
but its all I have,

and its bleeding

for you,

because sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut,
and let others do the talking.

a coffe shop,

She held her mug,

looking more beautiful than ever.

I took a sip of my drink.

I thought of those days, where you just want to cry,

All these crazy emotions and I just dont understand them.

All I know is they are terrifying, Life threatening,

And I never want to feel them again.

They're occuring alot these days,
And Im pleading with God, that maybe they can stop soon.

That maybe I can have one normal day,
One normal day that I can exhist in the real world,

And stop being so burried in my thoughts and emotions.
Maybe I could care about some normal things.

But now, I sit.
I wait, and Begg, for a little peace.

A break from this constant anxiety.

I said,

"I've lost my mind."

She says,

"I understand"

"Thats sweet of you."

Sickness,

 

Love is nothing but A sore throat,

Pointless pain and endless emotions,

All I want Is for this to be behind me, 

To be locked away.

I never want this again.
Its all I need and all that can make me whole.

I hurt...

And all I really want to do,
Is draw a picture of an anatomically correct heart.

Bleeding.

Everywhere.

Maybe then we could come to an understanding.

False Hopes,

Because too many times I have fallen for Ideas,
Like World Peace,
Teenage Love,
And a World Class education.


I try to swallow it down,
im tired, and this is hard work.

The splinters of these dysfuntional emotions,
run down my throat in attempt to make it to my lungs.

Maybe,
locked in this closet,
my gasping breath and the ash from my last cigarette
will ease the pain,
of these memories that will never fade.

,,

Sometimes,
all I can do is think about how great I am.
all those little thoughts that run through my mind on a daily basis.
Theres millions of them,
Im magnificent,
me, a magnificent being,
bringing all of these wonderful thoughts and creations into the universe,
no one has ever thought this before me,'
Im a genius,

stop.

Im in a trance and need to wake up.

these thoughts are bullshit, even my doctor says so.

Im just that ordinary kid who cant find love,
because im to afraid to tell her, and she wont tell me.

Do I risk medication, and the loss of creativity,
or do I sit here, screaming, with no one listening,
hoping that one day I will make sense.

Maybe one day, we will all feel the same.
Maybe I need to stop dreaming, and give up all together.

I think im going to go to college,
maybe ill get a degree,
be something im not.


I hope things turn out the way God meant for them too.

things of the dark,

its getting out of control,

something that I once discovered,
terrified me.
i think about it alot,
and it kinda scared me at first,
knowing that im slowly becoming more and more crazy,

but then i thought,
maybe my brain works better than everyone elses,
and you are all the crazy ones,

maybe its good to get emotional over stupid things,
to loose sleep over stupid things like,
what I ate for dinner,
I truly believe in bigfoot,
the fact that I really do think dress shoes look good with jeans,
im thinking of "her",
i am convinced mr. nelson somehow reads my text messages,
and how god either has a really good sense of humor,
or just doesnt like me very much.

maybe im crazy, or maybe im the exact same as everbody else,
maybe no one else is willing to speak up about there irrational thoughts,
and its making me look like the crazy one.




maybe one day ill be famous.