The other day I restocked on peppermint Altoids,
when I always buy the spearmint.
And I'm not sure why,
but thinking about tequila makes me smile.

I've been feeling a lot more lately,
In quantity over quality.
And I haven't been able to place it,
but with the passing days the music's become acoustic.

Between the coffee and the beers,
Father John Misty preaches away my fears.
And although I've disagreed with today,
I know tomorrow w̶e̶'̶l̶l̶ I'll be okay.

It's hard to tell the difference in what is actually poetic
and what is simply me viewing something as a poet.
With that in mind- I've been thinking about scars lately,
and I've realized there's a metaphor to be found in there.

Appearing when injured in ways our body can't heal.
Despite any effort, the wound is never the same.
The new design etched in the skin as a memory,
With any physical pain now masked with an emotional connection.

The thing about scars is that they do go away- eventually-
And by the time you are healed, the area is 100% new.
No longer marked by anything more than fresh cells,
A creation or rebirth formed through one painful moment.

Some change our appearance, while others only affect our actions.
Some change what makes us laugh, and others change what we fear.
Some bring tears even after their gone, others hardly force a second thought.
Regardless in the end there is nothing left but what we remember.

We endure pain to a degree of being marked,
But that doesn't mean we won't heal.
It just takes a lot of time and understanding-
that we'll never be the same- but we'll be new.

Buddha: 'Nothing is forever, except change'-
Scars: There's a poem to found there.

Here I stand.

A sheet of ice cracked with age beneath my feet.
Temperature plays no affect
For I've always been here.

I scream out in hopes of being heard,
But imagine the echoes of distance
Dissect any understanding by the time it reaches a willing ear.

I've been shuffling along for as long as I know
Only to freeze when I hear another crack form.
And I’m stuck again.

Only able to decipher the feelings of fear, frustration, and panic.
Equate time into the equation-
The emotions only grow.

Why doesn't anyone help me?
Where is she?

I have hands worth reaching for
And legs that can climb.
So saving me would come at half the cost that it may seem.

Frustration becomes my crown of thorns
As I cry out to feel more but in conclusion: I’m too numb.
Fresh trails of blood begin to show me where I've been and how I tend circle back to the beginning.

The Crown only digs in deeper,
Where is she?

Off in the distance I see etches in the ice.
Scribbles or scratches that feel familiar.
The closer I get reveals the messages or poetry in the ground,
Words I haven’t seen in over a year but know so well.

They are mine and they are not.
Some written long before me by figures only one could admire.
Regardless of the author,
With each word read after another contributes a feeling I can feel.

I graze the carvings with my fingertips as memories rush back inside me.
Emotions I can see expressed in something no echo can interrupt.
Words thousands of years old and words only a year old,
Yet the meaning has always stayed the same- Solidarity.

Why hasn't anyone come looking for me?
Where am I?

Tearing away the crown I scream,
The pain and realization overwhelming my vision with tears of indescribable emotion.
And vigorously my hands begin.

Scratching away at the ice I write.
Pieces of ice, nails, skin, and blood surround where I’m now.
Falling to my knees crushing the crown,
I’m too focused to notice the frustration subside.

Words growing on top of others,
Encompassing my position with far little structure.
I’m too transfixed on finishing.
Any pain is masked by the feelings I can finally describe.

I can see the words of anger to my left,
Metaphors of sadness in front of me,
Loneliness flows from my finger tips as I’m painting the emptiness to my right,
And love- 180 degrees behind me- I feel her in the letters that I write.

As each emotion surges through me to words in the ice,
A smile that has formed within me refuses to fade.
Clarity of the frustration I held onto has enlightened me,
I can never stop writing if I want to feel.

There she is.
Here I am.

I know why she isn't here,
And in the haste of my writing I see words that aren't mine accompanied by a pen-
"…Go all the way".
What’s written before is covered by my own mess, but I feel the meaning and walk away.

No longer fearing the cracks that form,
I know where I’m going.
Hands throbbing, I must never stop writing.
Pen in hand, I can never stop moving.

Here I come.

They say home is where the heart is,
Well I gave my heart to you.
Thus there is nothing more true in saying:
"Home is wherever I’m with You".

And it may take hours, days, or years,
But “I’ll never care how long it takes,
-as long as you come home to me”.

I've tried therapy once;
Weekly: Mondays, 3 PM.
But like interruptions end thoughts,
Broken glass ended sessions.

So call for help cause I've done it again,
Killed the advice as soon as he chimed in.
Conversations left to brewing inside I just ask
“If I can’t help myself, what other ******* ***** can?”

Blood stained fists are what sealed these lips,
Closing my eyes on the broken bathroom mirror.

Q: How can one lose home -
but live in a house?

A: She tells me after class when she’s almost home.
Yet later it gets... and I find she’s still not here.

*Moral: To be homeless but live in a house,
Is to live in a house without her.