there's three stages of panic disorder
stage one is being terrified, every waking second of every day, if not from symptoms, from the impending doom of them coming again soon
stage two is realizing the only way to cope with waking up every day thinking you're going to die, is to stop caring if you do or not
stage three is just wanting to get it over with

i wrote a lot of great poetry when i was in love
i wrote even better poetry when i was in pain
i wrote the best poetry when i realized that the two emotions were actually the same.

we run and run
through the spotlights
under the street lamps
and the trials of what is yet to come.

you and i have gone a long way:
you were there when the girl who
first stole my heart
had shared a milkshake on
red leather seats,
and when the same girl left
without me
after paying her bill.

the night is young,
our neighbors are nowhere but in the land
that their heads paint as they sleep;
you and i become artists of the sidewalks and
the rough concrete.

we leave our mark.

"long live the thieves of the street."

My hardest goodbye was actually to your dog.

~


fixated on a textured ceiling with dampened cheeks
failed vocalizations left her wanting

noises caught deep in the esophagus
gurgled and sputtered

the words evaded me with ease and grace

when at last I was able to focus on both breath and speech
she no longer wanted to know

the time for compassion and understanding had  
passed much as the darkest night
always presents dawn’s glory  to the waking birds

she knew the answer before I did
which is almost always the case with marriage

I just had to find my way to honest
again   /

In the basement where I sleep alone
Tinted mirrors shot right through my veins of gold
There's a nova in the mirror, holding up his two legs
With damp marks on the collar of his robe
With incisions and ghosts, on the nape of his neck
But there's nothing you can do
When he doesn't praise the sun
But he'll praise the moon
When he doesn't praise the wind
But he'll praise our oxygen