A girl I trusted told me that she understood


I did not believe her

A creed
You gave me your desire
It dusted off

A hollow victory
For giving me your passion
But only giving

Although invigorated
I am saddened
That which you gave was not merely shared

Up the stairs and then right.
Down the hall, 2a, 2b, 2c.
Here it is.
Unlocking the door, finding the light switch, lights on.
Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom.
So here I am.
Backpack on bed.
Check pockets, phone, wallet, change, keys, cigarettes, and lighter.
Lighter works.
Check wallet, I.D., license, gift card, another gift card.
Just in case.
Library card
Never.
Blood donor card, cash.
$43.
$20 in the dresser and $23 back in the wallet.
3 sets of clothes, boxers, black ankle socks, shirts, one long sleeve, shorts and 1 pair of jeans.
Hang up hoody, clothes in the dresser.
Toiletries, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste on the counter.
Shampoo and soap in the shower.
Razor in the cabinet.
Need food.
Shopping or celebration?
Celebration.
Lights off, out the door, locked, down the hall, stairs, lobby, door.
Outside, check cigarettes.
17.
Smile.

A shoemaker toiled each day to provide for himself
From dusk until dawn, leather was washed and cut, laced and stained

The living room was stacked with books, found, bought, or stolen
The kitchen supplied with only some fruit, vegetables, and a few loaves of bread

The town was healthy, and run well
The neighborhoods were peaceful, but not without trouble

A widow and son were watched over and provided for
But the loyal cobbler received not even a wave

In desperation, the shoemaker returned to his work
For that is all a man can do

This place is dead

Except for the cars that fill the seven eleven and WaWa parking lots late at night
They come in waves
But I come with them also
I like to think they come in waves instead of alone, leaving and coming
Waves that fill up the lots

Like the children that have come to fill my household
I am also one of them
And will be for a while I think

The good thing is that my home is not dead
The place is alive
Just as it would be on Christmas or Thanksgiving
As it is on any other day, holy or not
The place is alive, thriving
Its chest expands with each breath
And its diaphragm rises again with every exhalation
It can't be kept down
Not for long
Not while I am still on the back porch filling my lungs with smoke
Blackening as some things should be
Perhaps as those lots should be
Black with asphalt
But also white with the artificial lighting
The deceptive illumination giving a sense of day
Hiding from the night
The house will never be such a creature
The bodies glow enough with warmth and of things that are natural and alive
And the blackened lungs that rest with me in my body on this back porch are still a part of that
Despite the blackness

There is the saint and the unwanted
The older brother, the hard worker, the good guy, the genius, and the unknown
These are the perceptions, but also the only certainties

The saint is a *****
The unwanted, looming gratification
The older brother, an experiment

The hard worker, the good guy, and the genius are all that belong
The unknown is shaded by trepidatious illusions

All are a tree

Regret and apologies
Violet and Blue
Just succumbed unto an endless
And vast
Force of Unwill

Do not make it true

Do not allow such a thing.
Do not let it bother
And do not let it gnaw

Indeed, rise
rather than consume the fall