You could learn a lot about a person by whether or not they like rollercoasters.
A dream told me that once.
So when I woke up I asked people what they thought.
I didn’t know how to decipher their answers
Until recently.
There are two types of people in this world
Those whose chaos is consistent
Their weekends are filled because they don’t have time to listen; they just have time to do.
Most of them smoke (not all) because filling their lungs is the next best thing to filling their hearts.
Patience is unbeknownst to them.
Life is always playing a game of catch up, because they move too quickly to understand
that good things come to those who wait.
They hate rollercoasters. The track doesn’t lie straight; they can handle the speed but not the turns.
Then there are those whose chaos comes in bouts.
They lead life in an endless line of day to day
They lock windows during thunderstorms
Afraid of what the sky might share
These are the ones to be cautious of.
When their hectic hits, it’s a ******* typhoon
No amount of alcohol and cigarettes can contain them.
Rollercoasters are for them, because they’ve grown used to crazy coming in twists.
They are patient souls
Life doesn’t need to prove itself to them.
They are content with short weekends and long weeks.
I don’t know if all of this is true.
Perhaps I’m deciphering it all wrong
But you could still learn a lot about a person by whether or not they like rollercoasters.
I love them.

What’s in my empty bed?
I’d like to say blankets from old forts or maybe pleasant dreams forgotten in the pillow threads.
Maybe water marks from when we pretended the bed was a boat.
We would never sink.
The water never stung.
Surely my imagination disappeared along with my sanity.
I didn’t have a choice like Wendy if I wanted to grow up.
It was ****** upon me like the unforgiving nightmares.
When dreams turned to black.
I promise if you puncture my pillow now some salty tears and sorrowful wails would escape from years of concealment.
Hope only exists in peaceful slumbers where temporary death occurs.
My bed is still empty even if I reside there.
Because I’m empty of my childhood.
I’m empty of what the world gave me.

I asked the flowers “Why do you live when you know you will die?”
Eager and willing they invited me with soft fragrance.
“We don’t pretend to live in the present.”
“We don’t deny our fates.”
I waited patiently as the question had not yet been answered.
Their petals spread in enjoyment because my ponderings gave them happiness. The irony in that thought.
“We live for the weeping parent who outlived their own.”
“We live for the tiny noses pressed into us.”
“We live for those who feel they can’t for another day.”
I asked the flowers “How do you keeping giving?”
Their humble voices in unison echo
“We were born to give and so are you.”