I live inside myself
my own little world
I read my own books
and poetry
and listen to my own music
sure, I absorb others material
as much as I can
but I am only a lurker
looking over the Earth
silently
from my dark little island
gazing over seas
both digital and real
wondering how the others do it
Are they just good at pretending?
Are they really not as insincere
as they all appear?
These feelings, or lack thereof
are thrown up like smoke signals
from the fire inside me
hoping another
might see or hear
with eyes, ears, heart, soul and mind
that are almost mine
to rescue me
from this strange illusion
of my own creation

Sometimes I mistake you for euphoria,
for as you drip pigment into the colors
of my irises, they can no longer focus
for shaking iridescent mirth.

Dear November,
Please remember that I'm not strong anymore.
In December,
I might not be here to see the world.
So please November,
Please help me along.
Open my eyes and show me all the fun,
Let me make new friends and perhaps a lover.
I want to be here to see the summer,
Winter can be such a ******.
Make me happy and don't snow too much,
For cleaning up is such a fuss.
Be good November.

drink like bukowski
write like ****
start a new job thursday
i guess this is it