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the night has slipped from the tips of my fingers,
finding solace in bottomless sweaters
sleeves that swallow hands
and mouths that swallow
bourbon brooks
trickling through a loss of consciousness.
i yearn on winter bones for the loss of knowledge;
a slow mind,
and sweaty delirium.
i want to watch my finger nails go purple
from malnutrition, seeping into the cracks of an old house-
to become an eighteenth century ghost
and i'd measure my heart breaks in dust.
when the world falls away;
and it falls away often-
i find solace in thinking that nothing can amount to nothing
and one day you all will be as i am.

a thin willow wisp,
a frayed cardigan
  a story that was once told and lost through years of
the telephone game;
while the rich culture faded with every new tongue
Murdering murderers
done gone
in the moonlight.
It's midnight.
The perfect time
to commit a crime.

Here's to premeditated drug dealing.
And everything else that can get me
a one way ticket.
To the Devil's bed-room.
Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.

She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember her?

…of course you wouldn’t.

You would have her more like this:

That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.

He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -

- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.

There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.

You always pitted him.
Never out loud.

She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.

But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.

She didn’t even know she existed yet.
Copyright © 2010 -reworked 2012 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved.
On cement pillows
resting for revolution
nearby, the grass grows
Copyright © 2011 J.M. Romig. All rights reserved
My leaves have fallen color gone,
this season sings a sorrowed song.
Each branch and finger lingers bare,
where once a luscious life was shared.
With every breeze that passes thru,
within cold nights of bitter blue,  
and as each leaf makes it below,
this truth in life feeds me to grow.
I'll sit and wait,
fight thru
the gloom,
cause soon
I know new
life will bloom.
"If this is the way you want it to end"

Words that ring through my ears
so untrue, yet a part of what I hear

Let me for a moment explain...

Loving you had no beginning or sense of end
no fake colorful flowers in an imaginary garden
just each day a new start...a new joy

Each season represents what I feel about our love

Spring holding hope for the new, that lives inside us
the unyielding adventure being born with each little
bud exploding from the earth.

Summer was a time of splendor while the lazy
days of our afternoons allowed us to love
oh, and make love.

Fall brought our Summer closer
like a hug from Nature a reminder of what is
and what isn't...a time of reflection and peace.

Winter cold held our hearts at the hearth at the cabin
where silk sheets soothed lovers skin
and overstuffed duvets warmed us in the cold
the fire flickering our reflections off the others face.

So to say, *"If this is the way you want it to end"

is insane of you to think.

Can anyone stop the seasons from changing?

Then how could I ever change the seasons of my heart?
Blood is running through your veins.
Your heart is beating.
  Air is getting pumped through your lungs.
   Your hair and fingernails are growing.
     Wrinkles are slowly forming on your face.
      Your mouth is producing saliva.
       You have a sense of smell.
        You can see and hear.
         You're constantly blinking.
          The scabs on your body always heal.
           Food and water are keeping you alive.
            But still,
You're dead to me.
If I could but see
Through the eyes of a lover,
Cause the world is sickening,
Thoughts cloud my mind.
She sits there smilin'
Cause I love her

Cause some how It's fine.
In her eyes, not mine,
The problems in the world, and after.

While I sit confused,
She sits amused
And near to laughter,
But holds, to plainly say,
"Is it sadness you're after?"

It strikes me silent,
Though the thoughts do not relent-
Until my last breath/regret.
And it's finally clear-
                                     It didn't matter.
I wish I could breathe
in free poetry
It'd make it easier
for me
to pick locks with
diamond corkscrews
and drown my veins
in the sea

I never chose to be
a prophet
Lucky for me that
I'm not
and I'm too busy
shooting dynamite
in an overcrowded

I don't believe in
Angels' rib-bones
or self obsessive
killer whales
I only picture
sonic-boom clouds
and some lucky
monkey tails

Hey there, kid
look in the mirror
You've got some gerber
on your face
"wipe it off
with my corset"
said the Queen in
all her grace

The knights abandoned
all their fresh blood
and the courtesy
of blades
for the sake of a single ruby
to be run through
by four spades

I hid my eyes
from the man
who covered himself
in tattoos
like a demonic
kind of blanket
and twisted letters
in a noose
This is actually a song
My precious sweet potato pie, my darling little damselfly,
your life is still a lullaby, and I love you more than life so I
kiss chubby fingers pinched in play, make root beer floats,
chase bees away, but even I might break your heart someday.
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