i love you
but you're 512 miles away
7 hours 54 minutes away
on an empty road
with no traffic
no construction
no bathroom breaks
no gas refills
no car trouble
no breakfast, lunch or dinner
unrealistic.
are we unrealistic?
are we holding onto nothing?
i love you
but i can't hear you through the phone
you can't see me crying every night
you can't hold me when i'm crying every night
i love you
but i'm not happy
i'm not eating
i'm not sleeping
i'm not smiling
i'm just waiting
just waiting
for the 2 days we get together
once a month
and then back to
crying
the light at the end of the tunnel is gone
my spirit is broken
my love is aching
my heart is breaking
i love you
but you're too **** far away
i love you
but i can't keep doing this forever

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

i don't think i've been
loud enough
i don't think my voice
has really been heard

the last thing that i want
is to leave this world
the way it was when i
came into it

tomorrow i will dig
my heal into this earth
and unleash the demons
that have been buried there

and when i leave this place
it will be loud
everyone will hear
and everyone will know

smile at me, please, say cheese,
with stained teeth made from weathered piano keys.

frame the picture with duct tape and cardboard,
an ode to what our love could once afford.

snap back at me, guide me to terminal three,
say goodbye, freeze time and beg of me to leave.

smashed chances, we burnt our last connection to ashes.
now flashbacks to past plastic passion is like paying back taxes.