the sea sings of
all my sadness,
i hear it in the waves that
beat relentlessly,
in the sky that dreams of softness,
in the sands that stretch like golden tides.

This vacant warmth
I ******* hate it

I think I lapsed and missed my own funeral
Shrugged and felt my head roll off
But did nothing

Because what’s the point, anyway?
What’s the ******* point?

Blue dust of evening over my city,
Over the ocean of roofs and the tall towers
Where the window-lights, myriads and myriads,
Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.

Into the blue river hills
The red sun runners go
And the long sand changes
And to-day is a goner
And to-day is not worth haggling over.

   Here in Omaha
   The gloaming is bitter
   As in Chicago
   Or Kenosha.

The long sand changes.
To-day is a goner.
Time knocks in another brass nail.
Another yellow plunger shoots the dark.

   Constellations
   Wheeling over Omaha
   As in Chicago
   Or Kenosha.

The long sand is gone
      and all the talk is stars.
They circle in a dome over Nebraska.

i remember when the people i know
became the people i knew. it started in high school,
kids i’d grown up with dropping off the face of the planet before anything could hold them here; like they were hoping to die
early enough that we could all pretend they’d never been here at all.
we all wanted to erase ourselves. sometimes
i get jealous of the people who succeeded.

I was
busy planting flowers on other
planets for my great
escape to a world where people
don't laugh at your possibility of doing
terrific things, a world where your bone truth
doesn't make you feel vulnerable like
someone skinned you raw.

What a rude awakening to find out that the stratosphere
doesn't hold the answers that will make
me feel alright. My little red rocket was just a futile dream
and now that the impenetrable glass
ceiling has been meticulously charted in every possible
direction I am
directionless.

I only ever knew to keep looking up
because the horizon never seemed as close.

And now every other worn out soul
who was waiting in the line, still as ice,
to get on board
is ******* and hurt
at the harsh reality of their situation.
Park benches have lost their romance
and 3am is nothing but bleak,
when your spirit is rotting
in the trash bin besides you.

You do not love him.
For ****'s sake: you do not love him.
You are scared of being alone-
we all are. You are scared of being alone
despite your claims of freedom and independence;
all those hours you spend alone
in the comfort of the screen,
or else in the haunts of all the tracks
he has trod or stumbled over before
in the meadow of your memories.
You do not love him.
You love the happiness that has passed between you,
like teenage *****; like childhood sugar;
you outgrow everything
that was not built for your needs.
You know that I am.
You know that I am.

Oh god.

There's far more gin than tonic
in this
and far more him than sense.
I'm just a mess
crying on the bedroom
floor.

I'm just drunk. With
one euro fifty reading glasses,
spewing out nonsense
to my friends and they
don't even care.

I'm so ******* lonely.
I'm the perfect venn diagram intersection
of the sets named "self-loathing blondes"
and
"narcissists"
and I have no real problems
so I'll just call it art.

**** it.
I'll drink some gin and read The Bell Jar.

How do you think
I got in to this anyway?