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,