I self identify as the mud caked on your shoes
after you stepped in an unavoidable puddle

I self identify as the coffee that burns the back of your throat
every morning around 5 am

which was always right before you went to sleep
and it never failed to make me laugh

I self identify as everything that reminds me of you

I am a museum to your thoughts
your dreams keep me up at night
I can tell when you are cold when you are 37 miles away

I know you just lit your sixth cigarette of the day
I'm sorry you led me astray

My thought was our love
Was to big to fail
That we had more than enough
Until I found out

It didn't last long
All on account
Of the pressures we had
That started to mount

What I had banked on
What I thought we both had
I failed to use
The proper math

And now that it's gone
I wish I had known
That when we gave each other our hearts
It was only a loan

butterflies scream,
wilted flowers weep
my loneliness holds me
in my sleep

toss and turn
that faithful friend
is here to stay
until my end

clinging to shadows
my blood it infects
until the noose tightens
around my neck

the puncture marks
in my arm
of the needle
keeps me warm

induced chemicals
in the red stream it goes
that loneliness inside
high and low

the end I see
no tunnel of light
finally I know, and I
cling to life...
                       With
                                  all
                                        my
                             might

It is
My turn
For a ration
Of
Pain in this
Minute world
Where my
Tongue
Becomes a rug
For muddy
Shoes to
Scratch upon
And where my
Heart becomes
A marbled
Gravestone.

of which
is humor
and of
which is
life
that our
dry mouths
gape
at the beauty
of death?  
old princesses
and young
hobgoblins
will
laugh at
our
naiveté
that imitates
picnic blankets
and checker boards.
"Many perished
precisely
because
they were young
and beautiful."

Andre Breton
laughs
with our age
and our age
laughs
at time
and time laughs
at half
played grand pianos
and full moons
and they laugh
at our fingers
which fumble
at life
and life
fumbles through
humor.

of which is humor
and of
which is life
we wonder
as water clogged
ears strain to
hear.
or listen?

Increasingly distorted memories
   slowly succumbing to darkness
Some fallen, some forced into
   the oubliette of my subconscious

Figures of the past linger tentatively
   before receding into shadow
Familiar strangers they do seem
   as if merely remnants of dreams

The looking glass of childhood friends
   mirrors an unrecognizable effigy
An idealized reflection of a former self
   unflinching in its accusatory glare

Whispers persist from imprisoned depths
   for I am silently being recalled to life
Somehow I've forgotten how to be
   the only person I've ever wanted to be

Somehow I've forgotten how to be me