For me, it's not courage
or a lack of it
that keeps me hanging
'round. When I boil it
down, it's love in the bottom
of the kettle that keeps me
breathing. I don't think it is
possible to love too much,
but man, I feel like I've been
breathing for a long **** time.

r ~ 16Mar14

I love the flowers.
They strike me as beautiful
And alluring.
I like the sky
Nice blue, slightly clouded sky.
It's peaceful and quite picture-perfect.
Most of all, I like the trees.
I like the old oaks
That tower over all others
And that spread elegantly out all around themselves.
To me, that is an image of utter beauty.
I could sit in a branch all day
From dawn to dusk.
If i am fortunate enough
From dusk to dawn again.

I opened the blinds.
I took a deep breath.
I reminded myself that I exist.
I let you go.

It was a routine morning.

Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.

Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.

Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.

Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,

They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.

Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.  
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.

Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.

It makes you think.
Or maybe it only makes me think.
But regardless,
I think maybe we are all the other face of
Madness.
I think maybe the line is much thinner, the edge much closer
Than we let ourselves understand.
I think maybe the difference between
Me
And Sylvia
Might have been a day at the park,
Or a kind word from a dear friend,
Or a movie I saw as a child.
I think maybe it could always have gone that way, for me,
But it just didn't.
I think maybe it could always have been different, for her,
But it just wasn't.
The way somehow Earth evolved to hold life, and Mars, so close by,
Is dusty and dead-
I too, am inhabited by a cry, and I do not intend to let it swallow me.