My darling boy
Of green-eyed innocence.
Brown hair bias,
With beige finger tips
warm as the wet flesh of your inner cheek.

You color me purple,
Like your favorite color spree.

Just when you think you're doing okay,
just when you think your life might finally be headed in the right direction,
someone from your past walks by in the grocery store.

They don't have to be someone who was particularly special or important to you or your life at any point.

They don't even have to be a friend.

Regardless of who they are,
they never fail to remind you that your life is not actually ok--
it's in shambles,
and suddenly that oh-so-genuine smile on your face
cuts into you like so much shattered glass,
because your life *****,

and nothing you have done up to this point can actually change it at the end of the day.

Have you ever thought
Why your heart continues to beat
With all its pieces
Breaking farther
As the time grows

Have you ever thought
Why you still find it beautiful
To look at those starry skies
Every night
Through misty eyes

Have you ever thought
Why our palm has not yet
Lost its sensation
Even after holding on to things
Long gone and dead

Have you ever thought
Why do you never run out of oxygen
Even when sometimes you feel
The atmosphere closing in
on you

Call it fate
Karma, God's will Or simply hope,
You have to keep reminding yourself
The best is yet to come,
And you are far from being done.

I have an old guitar named Gypsy Queen.  Normally this would not be much of a momentous occasion, lots of people name their guitars,but Gypsy is hand made by me.  Many moons ago when my ex wife was pregnant with my only child, a daughter, I took an adult education night class while I was attending college as a day job.  Our instructor had recently taken a trip to Canada to buy wood as he made his living building custom guitars and he had some of the most beautiful birds eye maple I'd ever seen and also some very good spruce for the top of the guitar.  We met at the local high-school's woodshop classroom.  I knew all the power tools there having taken wood shop twice in middle school and again in high-school.  From raw lumber I fashioned her pieces, sides, three piece back, neck, keyboard (made from some exotic ebony my instructor had), and top.  While my wife was patiently waddling about the house I shaped and sanded those pieces on our living room floor.  The interior struts, the binding, and frets for the keyboard had to be created as well.  When I finally got her glued and assembled she was quite a sight, almost perfect in every way, and the quality wood she was made from was so beautiful I had never seen the likes of her before.  Most of the people in the class didn't get that far not having the skills with the tools or the coordination necessary to succeed.  Still she needed to be lacquered and finished.  All told, special tools and accouterments, cost of the wood, glue and sandpaper, plus the frets (nickeled silver), and the grover tuning pegs she cost me about $160.  But almost 500hrs labor went into her creation, whole free weekends spent sanding and shaping.  It was a year or more before I finally got her lacquered and she was so beautiful I could scarce believe I had made her, totally from scratch.  I had even inlaid her mother of pearl keyboard art, god she was a sight.  Both she, and my daughter, are now close to 40 years old, and she still plays like a champ.  Ask any guitarist about guitars they use a lot, see how many survive that long.  She's my prized possession to this day.  Her custom bridge is shaped like a bird (something I've never seen to this day anywhere else) and I'd put her sound up against any expensive Martin made.  Plus she is so much prettier.  She's old and her finish is crackled some but her neck is still true and her action is superb.  Through the years she has brought me so much joy, I'm so glad I took that class.  I hope she survives till I die cause I want to mix her ashes with mine before they get spread around by my friends.  I'll want something to play in the afterlife.

I sit upon a curb waiting for a bus
That may never even come
I am the girl they call broken
Damaged goods
Because I love to the point
That love is taken from me

I sit here waiting for that bus
Wondering if you were looking
Foreword to seeing me

A boy walks by holding a bag
I couldn't help but to wonder
if there is someone out there
waiting for him like I am waiting for you

Nerve's kicking in
Stomach turning
Tapping my fingers upon this screen

I have so much to tell you
But can't think of the words to say
Because I sadly tried to end my life today

I finely reached the bar
where supposedly you would be
Im now sitting here waiting
hoping helplessly that you'll find me

Checking my phone repeatedly
Still no text to see
This damaged goods
Is arching from
Her head down to her knees