I'm going to bed fully clothed, which happens from time to time
Not because it's cold, or I need to leave in a rush later
Or because I even think it's that good of an idea
It just feels like too much tonight
To even take off my pants
There's a spot in here for you... if you don't mind the denim jeans
Or the blankets, set aspin, like loads of clothes in the washer
Or arms and legs barraging you in limbo 'tween wake and sleep
A brain too restless and concerned
Can't lay still to save your night
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
Honestly, I'd forgotten what it was like to be here.
Honestly, I'd love to forget again.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
Oh no. It used to be here somewhere. I swear it, I’ve no reason to lie.
"Here" in some abstract sense, though. Not "here" like "I can pick it up with my hand."
Here in a way I could just feel it eking out a path around my neck
working its way, all at the same time, down the spine
and up across the skull
to my ear
I think, maybe, you took it with you when you left my house some weeks ago
Not to be cruel, or coy, or potent. Just because that’s the way these things work
Just, I got a little too used to it. Thought maybe it could be my own
But its yours, and it comes and goes along with you
You need it. I miss it.
Your sweet breath.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
Sunlight flits in. Not on its own, sneakily
yet bravely upright, saddling motes of dust
You open the curtains to look out on the garden
But all there is, is a grey brick wall staring back
and last time you checked, it was just the same: grey
And really, last week when you checked it was grey brick, too
It just doesn’t make any sense at all, though
why you’d face a window at such a plain thing
At some time, at some point, there had to be something there
A wooden boardwalk for bandying, lazy teens
Or a park with a bench for walked on, weary soules
It wasn’t born grey brick; out of nothing, ‘til today
And if there was something beautiful before
it might find time to come back home and visit
But who’s to say? So one more time you close the curtains
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
is what i said to you then
not “i told you so”
this was not that kind of talk
not even “i told you,” really
because that’s not true
more like, “babe i promised you”
it’s a promise you don’t want
but it comes with me
it’s the price of admission
“promise me you’ll understand?”
“of course,” you say, “yes”
i wish you’d known what that meant
i didn’t really say it
it fell from the sky
little ribbons of our thoughts
which makes it hurt a bit more
i just want to speak
but today we’re too far
if we weren’t, i’d still be weak
too gun shy for words
too eager to move too fast
not understanding what you,
of all the people,
need to feel before it’s whole
but, here it is, as promised
promised i’d obsess
promised i’d be too needy
but you, too sweet, acquiesced
and i truly fear
you'll see the rot within me
and of course rot outside too
small scabs and scars, first
before long, they start to itch
fully expected,
i scratch at one, Ruby red
and it bursts the water of life
it’s not satisfying, though
another must go
and then i pick a few more
until the chair is covered
in drops of blood, sad
to be part of such a mess
i still don’t get why it’s me
but it’s nice it is
your face is hope, in a way
if the world put us together
it’s not a bad place
which reminds me to keep on
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
A flashback, my body's feeble attempt at catharsis.
And I saw you there. Where I was stuck, you were always there.
Which maybe explains why you're such a reoccurring theme,
In my thoughts, in my nightmares, I suppose you're still a part of me.
It almost seems hopeless, fighting like this to rid myself animus.
Animus for you, a seething hatred for me. Maybe not me as a person. Maybe just how I handled things.
Handled you. You were a package damaged in shipping though.
All the glue in the world can't fix the priceless vase the mailman dropped on my front porch that day.
"How lucky," I thought to myself. Something of value, finally, that I can hold on to.
I just have to get all the pieces back in the right place.
And so the labors of love came forth, I examined each piece and tried to reconstruct you the best I could
Tried to put the puzzle back together without looking at the box. I thought I did a good job.
From a distance it was a thing of beauty to marvel what I had, and what had really become a part of me.
The reconstruction took up all my time, I got all my friends involved in it.
Maybe not enough. Maybe too much.
Or maybe I should have known going in
That all the glue in the world
Can't hide cracks
Cracks that begin to show once someone got close.
The cracks that, over time, as souls heat up and cool
Eventually they begin to inch and linger and mosey
The way two old people ready to die do
When they walk down the beach one last time.
Except we weren't old, and we certainly weren't ready to die.
Sometimes the nicest vase in the world
Isn't worth a big gluey mess.
You fill it with water
And it seeps through the places,
It's funny, how much this letter applies to more than just you.
I can now think of someone else who came to me like this, who I tried to piece together.
The tiniest crevices, where you would have never thought to glue it together at.
Or maybe my concept of the whole was the flaw in the plan.
One can't assemble something they've never seen
With no concept or heading, or even an idea
Of how it's supposed to work. Perhaps I was damaged just as you.
And with my broken and numb and altogether necrotized fingers
Simply didn't have the dexterity to assemble the splinters
I wanted to sweep off the floor but couldn't due to my failing eye sight.
But what does it really matter? What does it mean to me?
You never would admit it, but every REALLY GOOD story does have a theme
Does have a purpose. What did the protagonist learn from overcoming this conflict?
Maybe I won't know, because I haven't overcome it yet.
If I had I wouldn't be writing letters to you
In the middle of the night trying to figure out if I've learned anything yet.
Or maybe you had nothing to teach me. Or maybe I can never really learn. Tschuss.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
The tallest tree stands guard in the park
He keeps out the wind with the thickest of bark
And all of the trees for miles can view
His thick curving branches holding so true
But in this park, alone is he not
For he must have company contained in his lot
And all of the trees for miles besiege
A chance to stand where he scatters his leaves
So one by one he picks his crew
An elm, an oak, a pine, and a yew
And all of the trees for miles brew spite
That they were chose not to be at his right
And slow but sure, his trees conceive
And then of their duty, they are bereaved
And all of the trees for miles make haste
To see the new saplings that are now placed
They know for sure that some can not strive
For he consumes the most sun to survive
And all of the trees for miles conspire
To rule his park when he retires
And the smallest of saps looks on in rapture
And knows at once, his park it must capture
And all of the trees for miles look on in gall
For this little sapling is the smallest of all
For years he awakens and each day he stretches
But in pain of this growth, the poor sap retches
And all of the trees for miles must grin
The sap keeps fighting, though told he can't win
The sap matures, and ends an adult
Taller than all, he begins to gloat
And all of the trees for miles are shocked
The sap beat them all, his potential unlocked
Many moons pass and all can see
The impending death of the old tallest tree
And all the the trees for miles don't know
What they will do when his wizened self goes
And when he expires, the sap is the king
And his cries of victory echo and ring
And all of the trees for miles can view
His thick curving branches holding so true
But the sap can not hear all this admiration
And endlessly strains in exasperation
And all of the trees for miles can see
He's so much worse off, being this tree
But up on his pedestal, his glory can blind
And he can't see know his particular bind
And all of the trees for miles just wait
For the last of his life to dissipate
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
A patch, a thicket, a place I can write
On this broken ground I tread all night
A place I can hide, escape from my plight
A patch, a thicket, a place I can write
A patch, a thicket, a place I can sing
And throughout these woods, my voice will ring
O'er hill and dale, to crystal springs
A patch, a thicket, a place I can sing
A patch, a thicket, a place I can dance
And if you can come, I'm extending the chance
To partake in merriment, sure to entrance
A patch, a thicket, a place I can dance
A patch, a thicket, a place I can see
And no one can find it, no one but me
I'll take you along, to be gay and free
A patch, a thicket, a place I can see
A patch, a thicket, a place I can lie
To catch up on lost hours of shut eye
A secret it holds, the secret is mine
A patch, a thicket, the place I will die
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC
This tree has no life
Yet beneath it cold won't tread
Helped again by death
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
A snowflake's journey
Descended from a grey cloud
Struck by foot, shattered
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC