Gassing the esoteric
with toxins
and drugs
while attempting to keep grounded
but this thing in my soul
keeps puncturing nerves
and my brain may not be the same
since I saw you last
and these words seem empty
on an online forum
but I'm trying.

So what
if I feel less emotional,
the guilt,
anxiety
was getting to be too much anyway.
I'm happier now
but maybe less expressive,
the thoughts I have range
mostly towards the positive.
Light clearing up
depression, desperately
trying to come out
of the covers
and see you still there.

Alone with other people.
proximity killing heros.
I needed help but couldn't call you.
these people don't seem exciting.
how do I find someone more
like you.
writing poems didn't do much.
"socialize, get out more"
you say your mother doesn't like this
I say broken dreams reflect guilt
and loneliness needs an empty room.
Stop
when I make a point.
These things take time
but I wish wish they didn't

Feeling a little empty and lost
because I decided it was time
to break, rip free and pretend
I was stronger than I know
I am. So I stopped talking,
and we don't have ***
and I hope she misses me,
and more than my body,
because I long for her
and regret those mistakes
I hope she know's I have not forgotten
my fouls, or her's.

I felt large standing next to your tree
and your hands
and knees felt wet
beneath the leaves
and green from the grass
and this sun is diving
back down slowly
under earth and you're still here
in a backyard and the rays bear shining gold
reflections from your eyes
and hair and I wish this could last
longer but it is now and it's still and stopped
and the same. Because time is sometimes weird,
like this, and sometimes
subjective, like this,
and right now
I feel healthy
and I feel whole
and the skinny brown watch
wrapped around your wrist
hasn't ticked its hands,
in my eyes.

Our house is full of ships. A painting on each wall.
Some schooners, racing single sails,
18th century warships, some American,
some French, most British

and captained by Nelson. There are fishing boats,
less although, they're lining the staircase
leading down towards the basement.
The bathrooms house small

single frames, big enough to fit in your palm.
Maybe 25 portraits or so. All of them going fast,
the water rushing beneath the bow,
cutting through black-blue waters.

These were painted, hand-drawn and hung
by my father. Now a financial advisor. And cold.
But underneath, I know, still loving.
I haven't seen his brushes, his paints.

But he drew these boats years ago.
And I can't stop thinking,
every-time I ****, wash hands or ****,
about the artist he was and why paint these ships.

Will I go white
or bald. Sickly skinny
or obese. Maybe a round belly,
jolly enough and symmetrically round.

Sagging muscles and blotted skin
could that, more so, be the case.
As wrinkles become the norm
and my face begets new folds

will I remember my reflection
as it was, or instead
how the mirror reflects. Passions
hopefully stay lit and burn

still and bright in my heart
and soul and my mind still
recalling youth as a moment, brief,
but beautiful and flickering,

keeping warm past lives. And grandchildren,
children and those friendships
still gracing existence allow the beams
sprouting light out from memory

and joy to be absorbed wholly
within their pours. In doing so
I'll know that the folds in my dying skin
and thin strands of hair meant life
and spirit and so I won't mind

when those days come.