It's too soon to live in memories
I try to convince myself
Years don't change everything
I try to convince myself
This is no prison I'm living in
I have the keys, the locks are not broken
I try to convince myself I have a reason
For not using them

Grab a pen and some paper
Some of these are important
I just know they are
These are the things that made me what I am
Aren't they?
The sum total of all my experiences, right?
I need to chronicle and catalog
Separate the wheat from the chaff
This will set me straight
Or maybe not...could be a waste of time

Time takes them away, one by one
Teases, bringing some back
Then snatching them away again
Despite my best efforts
To hoard them
Years don't change everything
The cruel workings of time
Are eternal

Of this I am convinced

I've sacrificed freedom
To live in a cage
To settle for memories
For fear that hurt would break in
And make itself comfortable
Quick to remind me of the memories
It helped make

I'm convinced I have no reason
To break these chains
An empty house, alone
Is better than such bad company

I'm tired
rundown
this poem isn't worth the paper it was printed on
I don't care if you like it
I don't
ill read it tommorow when I wake up
Sober again
**** that was so stupid
I cant believe I wrote that
it was so stupid how some lines were written out really really long and others are just one
word
Im tired of having cottonmouth
And walking around with bullets under my skin
Scratch my tattooed skin with your ***** black fingernails
I will only wake up
go to work
come home
And get drunk again
Then we can all get drunk and high together on the weekend
I have a serious problem
With shooting into crowds of innocent people
Or keeping my mouth shut when I know better
I would rather lie here and listen to the rain fall on the roof
than think at all
Im burning out already
picking through layers of *******
reading book after book
Written by people who have wondered the same thing I do
Who the **** am I? What am I doing here?

all the razors and rough edges and
clean teeth as well as
***** socks and
shoulders all shoulders,
be they scrawny or broad, be they above or below
eye-
level.

some have ****** hair and books
some bring me hats and framed vinyl
some have early mornings and
most have late nights.

they all have futures
many have fantastic
dreams and the others have their work
instead, but most just want a place to lay down for awhile.

all sweatshirts and quiet words and the ability to
stop my mind from blistering in the warmth of them.
then in cars, screaming at other cars and anger
that I won't admit
frightens me.

the different walls and the posters
and paintings plastered
on them in an effort to
belong,

eyes that tell me not to look too far into them
for fear of growing down. for fear of
becoming a bore.

those closed eyes and sleep talk
to open minds and cheap dates and hands that are
larger than mine.

I know them to be true those
eyes those chins
those men those boys

those
hearts.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”