Who is she
What is she like
She is dark
They call her consumer of hearts
She lives like a chess game
She doesn't mean to
But every move she makes
She cruelly calculates
She loves the games she plays
But I think it's because
That's the only way she knows
How to trust
How to not get hurt
She pulls on heart strings
And she tugs at synapses
Biting free connections

She sinks her teeth into their souls
She watches what color they bleed
Delightedly she tears them apart

Her heart is gone
She can't remember if it was taken
Or if it was simply one of her own victims

How long ago
Did you list your priorities?

The small ones,
Like me.
Forgotten at the bottom of the list.

I do understand.
I am only a reflection,
Without purpose,
******* the attention of those around me,
The ones that worry about
Insignificant things.

And stop lying.

You have let go of me,
You haven't let go of the words
Or past.

But of course you let go,
You could barely hold on to
Your own sanity.

I can only hold myself accountable to the crushing feeling I have now.

You know poetry is your life
when you initially wake
and you're already in a conditioned mind state
reciting lines in your head

You know poetry is your life
when you go to bed
and rhymes are drifting you
away into a sleeping state

You know poetry is your life
when you are driving along
and you suddenly pull over
just to scribble down some narrative thoughts

You know poetry is your life
when you are at work
and you refrain from doing your job
just so you can jot down some formal expression

You know poetry is your life
when you are reading the mail
and even names and numbers
inspire a distinctive phrase

You know poetry is your life
when thy words of choice
become rapid fluency
and part of the Shakespearean language

You know poetry is your life
when random collections seamlessly take over
and are scattered everywhere
from journals, to loose papers, hard drives, & accumulating memory

You know poetry is your life
when you begin to realize
and everyday you must traditionally release
the spoken word writes to its divine legacy

You know poetry is your life
when you are typing away
and all of a sudden,
you lose your precious work
yet you can still retrieve the files
from one's own mental database

Poetry is your life
Life is your poetry
Whether you live a good one
Whether you live a bad one
Poetry is real
Poetry is fake
What is it really?
What is it not?

Poetry is your life
A therapeutical salvation
Cycle through the emotional manifestation
Peddle away from the soul's padlock
A spiraling staircase that leads you to freedom
The universal process of exhibiting experience
It's a divine intervention
Revelations of truth and discovery
Creating artful expression of one's existence
You know poetry is your life

It rolled down the stairs...
                thump,
                         Thump,
                                  THUMP
Gaining momentum until it crashed at the bottom.

It was glass.

They should have known,
They should have felt the crystal, its fragility,
Evidently they didn't care.
They never did,
Did they?

The scattered remnants were left on the pavement
To sparkle in the sun.
Even though it was broken,
It was beautiful to passersby.

Sometimes I wonder...
                                    ...Are people the same way?

I'll never understand,
the rural American mindset.
And in kind,
I am alien to most rural Americans.
How do you people stand it here?
Does time not pause for you as well?
The looks I'm given,
when I express my yearning,
for concrete, glass and steel.
Yea,
I suppose this spring air smells quite fine,
but it lacks the flavor of a fifth street dive.
And all summer long you all fish or you hike,
I miss just smoking cigarettes in parking lots,
at night.
Many assume,
one who holds such animosity,
towards his fellow man,
would prefer a smaller population density.
This is false.
It's easier to remain enigmatic,
when no one has the time to remember your name.
Your face.
I blend well,
and I do enjoy the fresh air,
the wilderness.
But when I leave work at night,
sometimes,
sometimes I still sit on top of my car and smoke,
just watching traffic.
And I think,
the city is forever in my bones.
And on those nights,
I miss my home.

In the park there is a bench
Polished coffee metal planks
The inscription reads:
“In loving memory of Alan Seltman.”
And speaks its invitation
With arms wider than I can be
The tree buds are waking
And the breeze finds equilibrium
With the dimming sun’s kiss
I sit
If not for the grumbling of my feet
Or the fleeting picturesque
Then because Alan should be remembered
As one who always offered rest