Poised on the knife's
edge between old and
too old. It is easy to
count up my misses.

I know now I'll
never get a PhD,
win a Nobel Prize,
discover a
Quantum particle
or find True Love.

It's just too late.

I am broke, old,
not very handsome
and slouching
towards inevitable
decay.

           No matter.

I have always been
better at life on paper
than living in the
world of phenomena.

Never keep score
on your life.

Don't mean nothing:

what counts is
not simply winning,
but learning the game,
loving the game,
playing for keeps,

and dying like
the man or woman
you are proud to be.

  ~mce

I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).

She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.

The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.

"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.

I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.

Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.

I enjoy it now.

But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.

I know you are distant,
And I am below the radar,
But I need a partner,
To throw my care at,

Someone to feel with me,
Someone who can be there,
Always in my mind,
If not near my body,

I have too much to give,
To continue botttling up,
I have made oceans with tears,
And mountains with favors,

Always working toward you,
Yearning for a companion,
Why is this so hard?
Why do people hide?

I need someone who will think,
To understand my heart,
Then from the prison I built,
I can be finally free,

All the rest is fluff,
The only line that matters,
Is written at the end,
*Will you come with me??

Dave was the kind of guy to always talk about leaving; we have all known a guy like Dave and we have always wished he would go, not because we didn’t want him around but because we knew he was one of the few who could go. Sometimes he would work up the courage and leave this suburban drive by; he even spent a few months out west, Portland or something. He never mentioned it much, the trip didn’t last long, more like an extended vacation before he was back working the same job, drinking at the same bar and kissing the same woman, well not the same exact woman but she was always close enough to the previous one, the difference seemed insignificant to us. I'd look at him at the end of that bar, sipping his beer as he wore the face of a man who was often late for work because he lost his keys. He found them once before between the cushions of the couch, so now every time he misplaced them, he would check their first and check again six more times. Always looking for what he needed in the same place he found it once.

Here it goes again.
Another poem to describe how useless I am.
How tattered my soul is.
How my brain resembles my hands,
callused, numb, and broken dry skin.
I'm a terrible person.
Self indulgent and full of sin.

And here it goes again.
In the mirror I see nothing.
A big steaming pile of nothing.
Full of wasted dreams, 'what ifs' and 'one days.'
The **** that I write never comes out right.
The **** that I dream is just that:
a big steaming pile of nothing.

Here it goes again.
As if I am something.
But I can't get past how useless I am.
A speck in this cosmic dust cloud.
And here I go again, thinking I am a tornado.
How I will crush your dream home
and leave behind a big steaming pile of debris.

Here I go again,
thinking I am nothing.
When really, I am something.
I am a speck in this cosmic cloud,
without me that tornado wouldn't be.

Your lips
Were the first thing I noticed
Gently parted
Breathing in and out

Oh to be your words
Conceived within your mind
Born upon your lips

Poetry.

Your lips are ******* poetry.