My dear, just stop
will you breathe for a moment?
stop writing lists of what you have yet to do
turn down the radio, put your bills on hold
don't fret about these college degrees and potential promotions

will you just stop?
take some time, breathe the air that scares you
as if free time makes you high on some terrifying hallucinogenic drug
darling, take some time,
just think
look at the anthills, think of what's there
look up to the stars, imagine what's more

please, I beg you
just take a minute
to scare yourself to death
to appreciate life
to set aside all they tell you to believe, to be
if college and an office job is the life for you, live it
if not, don't let them tell you that's how it is to be
you are not a brick inlaid without potential for motion,
you are the Northern lights
you shine
you move
you dance, brighter than the darkness would allow

just take a moment
please just ask why
ask, why am i doing this?
why am i saying this?
why do i believe this?
why do i live like this?

and if the answers suit you, let it be
and if not, break out running like a deer who's escaped the trap

live. please do anything you can,
why not?

i hear you whisper my old tunes, like that dreaded broken record,
"what's the point of trying to be happy when we all end up dead anyways?"
dear, would you ever let a newborn pup in the fighting ring just because one day it will inevitably see its end?

darling you deserve the world,
it is yours
with the stars in the sky and the potential for life
with the ants and the termites, we are alive
we are but condensation waiting to make waves

my dear, just stop
just breathe for a minute
wondrous is the universe
let us be wondrous with it

I assume I'm just in appreciation
of the walkmen making their journey
from my home to the heart of Louisiana
or somewhere.

I am an onyx bird of unusual beauty
with a vision of being ceaseless.

I'm the dark horse without a fan club,
shining bright black.

I've been to St. James' Infirmary
to hide away
where my suitor put a bullet through me.

These days I'm a ghost,
and haunting is a hindrance
to the acid-burnt hole in my
transparent tongue
that longs to be able to lick
the sharp side of a knife.

But I sit in St. James' Infirmary
because I'm sick to my stomach
and sick to my brain.

I'm not the hero of this story
because all I found was a darling
that I didn't wish to cherish.

The darlings will all go to New York or somewhere
to escape from being buried alive
in this cemetery I've been digging up
for as long as I can remember.

My body imprisons liquor
creating a shelter for it's
greatest admirer,

because the emptiness of my reasoning
cannot relate to those who were given swelling hearts,
because my heart was created to expire.

And all of the places I retire to
will not be like the night
when all the light was liquified.

This is my ode to severance
and my ode to sesame chicken,  
and my ode to walking on a frigid evening.

All the aces that hold me up
don't mean ****.

I can't fall back on a card
with no royal family.

I have no royal family
and A is the loneliest letter.