They tell you to quit smoking.
They tell you to quit drinking.
To quit laughing,
quit loving,
Living.
Because it shortens your life,
they tell you.
Because it's bad for your health,
they tell you.
Have a drink, friend,
have a smoke,
that's what's good for the soul.
Long walks at two in the morning
skipping stones over concrete oceans,
that's what's good for the soul.
Pretty women with pretty
legs, that say all sorts of
pretty things, but never too
loud, or too often, that's
what's good for the soul.
Watching as those pretty legs storm
out of the hotel room after
you said the wrong thing again. Fixing
up that last glass of
whiskey and enjoying it
alone instead. Fighting in
the back of bars over
spilled drinks or spilled
words or someone who slept
with someone else. That's
what's good for the soul.
To take a hit and to hit.
To love and to hate.
To live.
That's what's good for the soul.

but i think i was born
saying goodbye.

I could write a poem on how the storm outside
Assaults my window panes with pain intended.
The wind brings life to the inanimate accessories of trees
Previously dropped to the ground like cigarette butts.
And I could say how this weather suits my mood
As if even though I’m sitting here in a towel after my bath,
There is chaos inside my mind far greater than any weather occurrence.
But that would be insane.
As if the world outside, where the purpose of the sky is to designate the rain
Shares any likeness to the mood I am in.
Or the life I lead.
How full of myself, to believe the crashing I hear from battering rain
Could compare to the need I feel to explode out of my own skull.
No.
Not ever.
Me and Mother Nature share no maternal bond.
Even if she could depict what way the wind blows, depending on the state I’m in
How could she know?
When I am merely here, in my towel, upon my bed.
Expressing no wrath compared to that outside.
Believing that the storms I see from my bed
Rival the storms inside my head.

As the night draws in i find myself surrounded by darkness
a darkness that has no feelings no emotions.
I lay with a blanket of blackness wrapped around me only this blanket has no comfort.
The aches in my eyes the sounds sound so fine my eyes are shattered i"m completely in tatters
just 8 hours thats all that matters.

We all have our own personal places,
Whether you call them
Sanctuaries
Homes
Or shelters,
We all have somewhere (or some places) to be ourselves.

We all have a mind,
That central nervous system that runs our bodies,
But yet is so much more.

When we think,
There's that little voice inside your head,
That talks to you,
Listens to you,
And is there for you.

We are our own best friends,
In a way.

Or maybe
It's that little voice inside our heads
Who we tag as "thinking"
That is our best friend.