Self Aware Cigarette butt.

I'm not burning anymore
there is no smoke
heaven is a sparkly glass ashtray
this must be a joke.

. . .

Welcome Home.

I will build you a house
like it's meant to be
where nothing is a coincidence
or just is.
where you can read along every line
thoughts meet at every corner
the windows won't just look in or look out
but also look back
I will plan with precision
and lay every brick down with intent.
knowing me,
it won't be symmetric or beautiful
but it will be earnest and it will be for you.
This much I promise.

. . .

The night is way too young.

Holding a bottle of bacardi
been mulling things over
too many people at this party
and I'm too sober.

. . .

Round and Round.

It is a spiral
not up, not down
but to the middle
the long way round
round and round
slowly but surely
we will get there
except of course,
if it isn't a spiral at all
and we are running
round and round
in circles.

. . .

Empty.

Drained
to the very last drop
wearied
of any lasting hope
the mere thought
of wanton intent
every single cent.
All of me,
Spent.

. . .

Ultimately.

In the grand scheme of things
I know that I know nothing
and this knowledge gets me nowhere
because there is nowhere to go.

. . .

No Air.

My window is open
so is my door
papers flying
like there is a breeze
but no air
and I can't breathe.

. . .

We're Okay.

We are young but not young enough to be carefree
We are old but not old enough to be responsible.
We can see change so close we can almost touch.taste.
We are restless to leave but afraid of letting go.
We are not the future anymore.
We are the present.
We have our whole life ahead of us.
We just figured out it is way more tricky than we thought.
We may have time but our time to make mistakes is running out.
We heard this was normal. those who made it insisted.
We can't understand how anything this nerve wracking is normal.
We wonder where those who don't make it are sent.
We had a lot of lessons in the art of growing up.
We feel cheated and uneducated and unready.
We get frustrated and insecure and frustrated with being insecure.
We know it's not the end of the world, only some days we hope it is.
We feel alone in crowds.
We would much rather be alone in our rooms.
We are young enough and angry enough and naive enough to put the world on hold
and dance to our favorite songs
and laugh at our problems
and trivialize our fears
and crib about salt shakers
and other things that don't matter
with people who do
and it's okay.
We're okay.

We've got to be.

. . .

Whirlwind.

Caught unaware
in the high spirited resonance
of restless nonconformity
not knowing a lost cause
I search for stability
inside a whirlwind.

. . .

Sunrise.

Let's watch the sunrise together
as a perfect night,
too dark and too beautiful
disappears around us
into the light.

. . .

Introduction.

This isn't some childish desire
to stay a mystery
or that I like ambiguity.
This is a guessing game
with the odds stacked against me
I'm going to need a lot of luck indeed
to fill these gaps in me
half as well
as your imagination does.

. . .

What we have.

embers
of forgotten times
that burnt a lot brighter.
quiet
after an animated conversation
having run eachother
out of breath
and out of words.
stolen glances,
unsaid words,
and careless shrugs.
A battle
against the force of habit
longing
for the memory
of a time
when
I had you
and
you had me.

. . .

In my dreams.

My imaginary friend
who I used to pretend
held the other end
to the conversations in my mind,
hasn't lately been around
because now, all of them,
these conversations in my head
have me, it would seem,
sprawled at the edge of your bed.

. . .

Masochism.

There is a sadistic pleasure
to be derived
from denying yourself what you want.
In hitting rock bottom
and out of spite, staying there.

. . .

Apathy.

You can think it's not good
or good enough
and that's okay.
Who even are you anyway.

. . .

Good Morning.

If two roads did diverge in a wood,
I'm sure someone would have
raked, paved and painted both
to charge for passage at either end.
because when morning arrives,
with its well pressed suits and ties
In reality's harsh weather, poetry dies.

. . .

Disintegration by parts.

This part I don't like.
Cataloged for future reference,
my slow demise.
An act of free falling,
frame by frame.
For you; From what's left of me.

The part I do like,
will come soon enough.
Rising from my ruins
with no grounds to be bound to,
like the best things do.
For no one; From nothing.

. . .

Limbo.

Hoping to force change,
I pushed myself over the edge
but gravity defied me
and yet again, nothing happened.

. . .

Black.

I'm lost in space and
it's all around me, black.
I look in the mirror and
my fears are showing, black.
I laugh out loud  and
my tears are flowing, black.
I dance bare foot and
my toes are bleeding, black.
I fall free, too fast and
hit too fast, the bottom, black.
I burn brightly lit and
there is nothing but ashes, black.
I sleep to certainty and
everything fades to black.

. . .

Exclusive.

Friends and family
can show up support and cheer.
but when push comes to shove,
It's only you in the battlefield
with your demons.
You are inside your head here,
After all.

. . .

The break up math.

You left

and took with you,
all your additions.
That's fine.
What's yours is yours.

It's my subtractions
that bother me.
What's mine,
still resolutely yours.

So, life didn't go back to zero.
and I live now, in negatives
chasing phantom warmth
between cold sheets and bare walls.

. . .

XVII-2

I want to read a lot of Neruda,
then write a lot like Neruda.
The thing is,
I've read Neruda before
that didn't make me want to read more,
or write at all.
guess what's changed

. . .
xxx