i wear my starry night socks
whenever i need a little reminder
that the most brilliant people
can be stark staring mad
and still be appreciated

i've been wearing them
a lot lately.

I need to write something
No, no you don’t understand

I need to write
I need to prove something

(Though I do not know what it is)

That I’m talented?
That I’m alive?

That despite weeks and weeks
And months and months

Of retreating into the darkest corners of my mind
Giving you only dark, depressing drabbles

If anything
To go by

So despite being well aware
That this piece is going to be

Complete and utter ****
**** that’s hot and moist

Plugged with pine straw and grass

Beneath the glorious writers
Of HP’s feet

I need to make that sacrifice

I am here
I am *alive

We sit in a café
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in our grips

Surrounded by folks who also have
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in their grips

But we are not here
To chat on about the weather
Our significant others
Or careers; no

We certainly are not
You glance at me
In a nearly
Conversational manner

“So you had your heartbroken”
You say, a combination of an
Unsurprised sneer and a nostalgic frown
Upon your face

“So I had my heartbroken”
I repeat, my lips cracked and my mouth
Blistering slowly from the heat
Of my seasonally appropriate beverage

“Are you, like the good little kid you are,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal?”

“I am, like the good little kid I am,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal”

“I haven’t even given into that
Deep, gut wrenching temptation
To do something terribly
Terribly destructive”

I state this in a mockingly proud way
Before pinching my chapped lip between my teeth
And gnawing on it until a swell of blood
Dripped into my seasonally appropriate beverage

“But what I have found”
I say, slowly, licking my coppery lips
“Is that despite all these
‘Coping Mechanisms’”

Your expression is inquisitive
Brow raised, eyes lit up
Like storm clouds with lightning
Stirring somewhere behind them

“I suppose you’re wondering why…”
I state slowly, before sighing an a
Somewhat irritated manner
"I’ve thought this thought too many times before..."

“Because no matter what
My mind refuses to even ponder
The thought that I am meant
For anyone but her”

You shone there like a watermelon in the sun
glistening gems of pink and black and white
and a variegated bowl of jade
       sage and emerald and algae murk
   holds them like a hand
And the smell of you like summer and laziness
You pull longing from each of us like a
   tug-o-war
where we have given up
But the taste of you is like
       nothing
like a ghost of summer longing
   a faded photograph of when we were
happy.

i told you i loved you
my voice faltered in the absence of light
the words fell out of my mouth
ungraceful and ugly as ever
it is no wonder your touch went cold
the silence you chose not to sever
your reply was infested with mold
the distance grew and my chest sunk
"that's sweet of you, but i'm just too drunk"
and in that moment i knew
that i was wrong, i do not love you
not at all

gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step

his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust

dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass

glass shatters more
crumbling
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods

gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting

the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death

death
only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true

and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness

and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target

his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears

a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?

he pulls the trigger

I am a burning candle and I have burned out.
There is still a lot of wick left, though.
But I'm too drunk to find my lighter.
And who really gives a **** anyway.