Every so often I step through that door
And take stock of what I've got
Pretty little things that don't make sense
But are great fun to me.

For example, I imagine
Mist speckled with silver, shimmering each time the wind picks up
Warping and swaying with the breeze.
It blankets a field of white grasses.

Another holds a grove
With electric blue leaves screaming on the hills
Shuddering and flashing with energy
Catching the wind.

In continuation
I made a deep charcoal ravine
Far down flows glowing purple lava
Carving out a riverbed far below
Thick, deadly, enrapturing.

But I can't forget green
Everything back home comes in green
The night sky in my mind
Is the deepest, blackest emerald
With stars piercing through the velvet.

The more I imagine the deeper I go
So then I make
Clouds thick and vaporous
Rumbling and yellow
Orange lightning flashes and strikes
Against the inky black sea
Golden fish flickering like candles within.

Perhaps its silly
But one say I hope to see it again.

Sometimes I get an impression
A hint of what I could have
A small stone wet from the ocean
Or the color of my favorite sweatshirt

Maybe one day I could see it in the flesh.

The azure ether
melding to my dazed eyes, and
blurring my vision

Yesterday morning I woke up with a hole above my head
I got up, brushed my teeth and got dressed
As anyone does
I got in my car and drove.
I did what I was supposed to.

This morning I woke up with a star above my head
It took me on a tour
To the room with our plans laid out on a canvas, halfway done
Sketched in pencil, the paint had already left

The sun streamed in through the open window.
It felt like a dream.

I'm on okay terms with my demons,
But our relationship is completely superficial.
We talk and laugh at parties,
But their claws dig into me.
I smile nervously
And rip 'em off
Like the body of a tick, too quickly
So the head is still embedded
And I wait for paralysis to set in.

You know how the saying goes:
They write one and you know they love you
They write a hundred and they love the craft
I'll admit
I've written a hundred and more, 'm sorry

I'm getting sick and tired of the same routine
Pacing all night
Until I collapse, exhausted

Spinning my wheels, running on fumes,
And ultimately getting nowhere.

I'm thinking of blowing this whole thing up
And starting from scratch
Because after we ended things
It took you half the time to recover that I did.

You know how the saying goes
And those are the consequences of having a muse.
You corrupted the art
And turned it into an obsession.

I've been limited,
Waxing poetic about your body, your soul, your grip on me
And nothing more.

Take this as a goodbye letter
To: you
And for: me
Take this as a promise to stop looking back.

I'll write about the stars
The wind in my hair
And how the birds sing to greet the early morning.

Maybe one day I'll write about someone new.

I'll write about living, and stop thinking about you.

In a dream
I was sitting on the grass at night
hands splayed behind me to support my weight

I looked up, staring at the same old constellation
until one star at the edge fractured
a few pieces brightly trailing down

and then everything exploded
a nebula bloomed to take up a piece of the sky
celestial green with
an aura pulsing outward in waves
as if calling me to another edge of the universe

I tried to film it
zooming in and the layers kept going
detail upon detail
depth upon depth

now sitting in my bed, I'm wondering what it all means.

I compare my loneliness to the sound of a mourning dove.
It starts low and small, then goes up
It repeats the more each call goes unanswered

Perhaps letting it out, alone and loud
over and over
eases the pain, yet also pokes at the caged creature within
encouraging a festering of wounds.

A mourning dove never seems to be where the other birds are
Because when it calls it becomes all I can hear
It guides me far into the fog, ever elusive
until I finally spot it
high above on a line.

Every time it gets a little easier.
Every time it starts to sound less
like a Gymnopédie No. 1
and more like a Claire de Lune
major key as well as minor
content as well as sorrowful.

It's alone, and it's still singing.