The quail rain hits the glass and splits in half against
the windowpane while you're sprawled on the cloud
grey mattress, idly smoking a cigarette.
We are in a green room at the La Quinta
motel near a sunburned Texas highway.
We do this sometimes; drive away from our
respective hometowns and pretend we're
different people with movie type of stories.
Perhaps it's immature but for a few
bank-robbed moments, we are not
lying just to breathe easily.

You understand why my father might disown me
and extend a hand, saying, "Come here," very quietly

Lime green lightning bugs lit up the road late on a school night
and you squeezed my hand while lip-syncing to Ed Sheeran.
Inside your car, we were safe and invisible, baby.
You rested your cheek on my shoulder and I fell
for the dangerous tints of maple in your irises.
Maybe it was naive or maybe it was real;
either way, we threw caution to the wind
along with the ash from our convenience
store cigarettes and kissed hotly like nobody could stop us.

You were someone I wanted to keep forever;
tie you up with imaginary rope and trap you

A door creaked open as I pulled on my coat in the foyer. My sister's voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
"Mike, can you stop by the drugstore? We're out of pain medicine."
I hated when Cara called me "Mike" because that's what our absent mother used to call me before she took off. But I couldn't be mean to her right then.
"Okay," I said as lightly as I could. "I'll stop there on my way to the club."
Before she could turn around, I called her name.
Cara froze on the fourth step and my heart sank when I noticed something like hopelessness in her aquamarine eyes.

When I was a kid, I used to get a lot of flack from adults at school and at home because I'm shy and they would say I was anti-social and criticize me, saying I had to make friends because it wasn't normal. So I'd step out of my comfort zone and try to approach people, which would only result in me getting bullied. I seriously only had one real friend who I met when I was 9 but we lost contact when I was 11.

*A story I wrote inspired by the song "Superman" by Five For Fighting.*

The football field is completely deserted at 6:30 on Sunday evening. The washboard sky is stained a buttery amber and I'm sprawled on the hood of my station wagon, waiting for my best friend, Ryder.

Bucketfuls of gosling rain pour down
on the neighbor lady's plants as
I fiddle with the rawhide bracelet
you gave me for good luck.
It's ironic because if there's
anyone drowning here, it's you,
struggling to breathe in
the notorious deep end.
And yet, my throat tightens
every time I see you holding hands
with the transfer student from Biloxi,
the one with sunny hair
and a cruel wasteland grin.

He knows I'm jealous
so he takes advantage of
the celebrations in
the French Quarter,
pulling you closer in
his noose and water embrace.
It's strange how you're so

I don't really know where to start but there's something that I've never understood and I just want some form of clarification, I guess, though it might still be impossible for me to understand because I just feel so different from everybody else. But.. When I was between 10 and 13 I was molested by an adult I lived with at the time and some other stuff happened to me when I was 17 and 18 that were equally traumatic. I'm not "normal", by any means, especially when it comes to intimacy and relationships because I don't trust just anyone with my body.

*title belongs to John Green.*

You were a questionable night and strong arms;
coffee ground eyes and marijuana-coated lips
turned up in a cute twenty-four hour smirk.
You and I were shoe boxes filled with
boy-meets-boy hormones wrapped
tight in the construction paper summer before college.
Neither of us knew what was really
going on when we kissed passionately on your couch
the afternoon of Thanksgiving.
And before I could explain my feelings,
you fell asleep with your head on my chest,
so I just ran my fingers through your
goldenrod blond hair and thought about

The antique gold leaves swirl eerily
in the courtyard and I find you sitting
alone on a stone bench near where
the children like to play cup and ball.
But they can't see you, Larkin.
I'm the only one aware of your presence.
Decades of being sneered at
have made you cold to most humans.
So it was shocking when you decided
to open a window and let me catch
a glimpse of the frightened boy inside.

You are a walking tragedy in dapper clothing;
all the misunderstood pieces
of Prince Charming's dark past coming to life
in the flickering gaze of your shamrock eyes.

*Dedicated to MaddieJoy because she watches Once Upon a Time like me :) The mad hatter story line is my favorite so I hope you like this.*

He looks for her inside empty magic hats.
All alone in his dull swan lake mansion,
he needs just one more drop of
purity to unchain the past.
Unfortunately, he's stuck in wonderland.

Queen Anne's Lace and
mushroom heads once
peeped out from the enchanted earth
as the mad hatter and his ginger girl
played tag in the desiccated woods.
They walked to the fair
where he bought her a snowy rabbit,
even though money was scarce then.

When I first signed onto this site, I told myself I would refrain from writing anything personal because it just isn't my style but I have to admit now that I'm really lonely and in need of some support. Also, I'm running out of things to keep me numb. Before when my depression would get extremely bad, I would focus on the present or distract myself with a hobby, mostly I would daydream about the future and what I hoped to accomplish but now I feel like that was just false hope because here I am, years later; still miserable and a failure.

Some people like to set sail
for topaz shores and linger
on palm-laden boulevards,
but this boy prefers the intimidating
skyscrapers of a foil wrap silver metropolis.
He thirsts for prism raindrops,
longing to hear the blaring
noise of Navajo taxis speeding past.
Indeed, late into a shiny billboard dream,
he swears he can taste sugary crumbs
from Breakfast at Tiffany's on his tongue.
It might sound silly but the kid is actually
a lost ghost from black and white films.

He wakes up in an unremarkable place
where most folks his age
don't understand why he

Your hands ghost over my arms and land on the springy mattress.
I'm only pretending to sleep so the movement doesn't shock me.
The creamy shadows of trucks on the country highway slip in
through the blinds and flash over our titled forms on my bed.
"You're a terrible actor," you whisper in my ear.
"But that's what I love about you; how everything is so real."
And then your stinging June lips scale down
the side of my neck and I grin, unfazed by
the teasing notes in your gravel and snowflake voice,
reaching my hands up to pull you further

You guys have to check out Richard Siken's poetry! It's seriously one of the most brilliant and beautiful things I've ever read and it's helping me write the boy/boy poems I've posted here as of late :P My favorite poem of his is called "Little Beast" but they're all so seductive and gorgeous and haunting. Here's a link to his webpage but I went as far as buying his book "Crush" on Amazon because I'm that much in love with his writing :D So I hope you enjoy it also..

http://words-end-here.livejournal.com/tag/poetry%3A%20richard%20siken

*about a girl this time :)*

You were singing karaoke against
the mechanical stars that peeked
out of the see-through sky above
the coffeehouse.
And I stood in a crowd of friends,
feeling awkward,
but nonetheless impressed
by your voice that sounded
like a bluebird on
a rainy Monday morning.

Girl, the brown daisy dress
you wore with sparrow leggings
did something to my sanity
because I went up to you
after the show and helped you
down from the stage
as people clapped,
clinking glasses of
frosted supernovas.
You smiled shyly,
making me feel very seventeen,