When it all got to be a bit too much
I reasoned my way into a corner
Sat there silent
Stapled my bottom lip to my convictions
And called it poetry

We all pretend to have ways to cope
Write a poem
Pretense and prophetic anthems
Some say it better than this
It’s harder with through staples
I didn’t know how to pull them out

So I learned to drive
Pressed mute minutes into the pavement
Pulled prayers from the asphalt
It’s all I was good at
Taking long steps

On the last night I lived there,
I stood on my mother’s front porch
Holding everything I was in one hand
Everything I could have been in the other
And clenched my fists like a fighter
Denied the daylight
Spit in the face of the night
Drowned expectations in the dawn

Counted 148 bricks between the front step and the streetlight
Illuminating 4 wheels and one way out
Kissed each brick with my boot heel
Packed my belongings in the backseat
And my longings in the bags beneath my eyes
Put pedal to promise
Peeled out and pretended
That we all run away

When it all got to be too much
I bit rubber into ground
And wrote myself a letter saying:

“Someday, kid,
Someday you’ll be found.”

The moon haunted the room through its raw voyeuristic glow.
As she wrapped her bare legs around his frail torso she spoke at a tone that tickled his neck. The only thing he could keep in his failing body that day was a humble cup of yogurt. Minutes bled into hours that she rubbed his cold shoulders. They laid naked together with tubes in his veins. 

 The air in the room held the familiar  scent of a summer night. This night was a good one. No blankets damp with tears, or shallow breaths that punctuate eloquent apologies. Only the two meandering through distant memories. He closed his aching eyes and rested his head in her lap. 

Vertigo took hold of her as she looked down upon him. He was an asphalt flower trying to break free. He spent his days using a meager palette of activity.  Staring at the hospital ceiling he inconsolably searched for a crack. For hours he laid still, violently thinking. 

Then, beyond the shadow of doubt came the orchestration of happiness. Dopamine hit a  crescendo  at the cue of eureka.
 
He outwitted death. 
He realised he could succeed eternal rest by living forever in her. 
The simple loophole of death:
 love.

there's something about waking up before the world opens it's eyes
stepping out the door,
the resonance of each tapping footstep in a silent world
whispering that you are alone.

the world is floating on a continuous drift of sleep

and you are simply a dream

I thought of you today and the thought made me smile,
Memories came thick and fast that haven’t surfaced
for a while

I thought of you today and the tears began to flow,
Hospital rooms, hushed goodbyes and you asking us to
let you go,

I thought of you today but then that’s nothing new,
Each day throughout the year are filled with thoughts
of you

In lumbering night shadows,
between burns by branding irons
like cigarettes,
We blister talking toungues
and reveal the soft flesh
of ourselves.
So easily, our embers
make incense of our arms
and red, wet, wounds
pool beneath the wrist.
We sat for time,
trying not to scab over;
smouldering our speech
with singeing ire.
Despite the heat,
we couldn’t help
but heal
as dawn cracked, and
in fire of the light,
with hammering heads,
we forged scars
for each other,
for each ever.

it is a lazy day
i've slept in
knowing i have little
to do:
drink coffee
smoke
read
and write
i enjoy days like these
no cares
no worries
although
i cannot help
but be anxious
is there something
i should be doing?
if not
why do i feel
that there is?
i guess my anxiety
let's me know
i am still driven
even on lazy days
like today