Poets come.

Poets go.

Poems remain—

left behind for someone

to read,

to admire,

and

to inspire

the next generation

to pick up the pen.

Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.

The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?

Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.

The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.

I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.

I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.

What I like
doesn't make
a thing right-
what I dislike
doesn't make
the thing a blight :
life can't be viewed
just from a single side

within the binding
within the cover
the unseen pages
stitched together
silence and memory

I can feel it.
It's constantly perched on my shoulders.
Breathing down my neck
Icy fingers dragging down my cheek
Sickeningly sweet
I don't let myself dwell on it for long.
But when I do...
When I face the inevitable, I know
There's nowhere I can run

They come to me as whispers in the night
Though they don't strike at night
They catch me in broad daylight

Large hands that wrap around my throat
And they drag me back

When I try to run, when I try to escape
They grab me by the ankle and drown me in the dark and murky waters they reside by

They've made it very clear they don't like me
The people in my head... they don't like me.