when is a writer happy with their work?
when is it ready to be published?
when is it enough?

when they have said all they can say
and have beaten the horse passed dead
when no more words could possible relate to the message
when it is exhausting to think about
when it is finished

after the hurricane i sat on my porch
smoked my last cigarette that i shouldn't be having
with "the shining" in my hand
getting wet from the strong breeze and left over drops

i saw the telephone pole next to me
tilted from the storm
and i wondered...
what if it fell over?
straight into me?
ruining the house?
ending me?

it was a calm imagery
so i stood up at this thought
and looked out the railing
fresh fresh air
looked down both ends of the empty street
calm.
no one outside
nothing happening
nothing but the shingles from the roof tops, scattered on the pavement
it was nice

i threw my last drag into the calm
and headed back inside

it did not fall over.

no one is real
all cares are centered around themselves
when they will smoke their next cigarette
who's lips they will place their's on tonight
what girl they will fake a smile to
what boy they will pretend they never loved
no one is original
all thoughts are synced together
shave half theirselves away in pacts
appoint the men they will claim
the girl they will blame

this has to be one big joke
and i don't get the punchline

buildings. tall, new
marvelous and proud but ignorant to their beauty

tracks. old, rusted, worn down with travelers
street art. colorful, incredible, stories in a word

drifting backwards through the city
soft lulls, force you to sway
muffled rumbles, felt under the soles of your feet
inaudible chatter, as people enter and exit
quite men in suits, with smart phones and newspapers
young girls with books and headphones
dark tunnels with green tints

as begin to leave the city
the train becomes more alert. awake, alive
the window's view is in fast forward,
like an old video cassette player
persons eyes cannot focus on the world outside this box
skyscrapers and bustling folks
turn into suburbia apartments and trees fencing them in

the sun seems to get brighter
and nature more humble
more frequent interruptions in the journey
things are slowly becoming familiar
names of places, buildings, homes, scenery
the final halt
everything is comforting and relaxed
**For I am home.

the music I hear
comes from the wind
whispering its prayers to me

the gentle voices of the faceless
I care not know

you may have always loved me more
but you broke me down
you stripped me of my strength
you towered over me as you threw down your words

you laid your hands before your lips
you placed your tears before mine
your guilt never exceeded your pride
until i begged to say good-bye

your anger and your self inflicting hurt
will forever stain the beauty of the love i know you had for me
and the jealous and pity over powered my heart
and ran my love away

surrounded by all these faces
the feeling of loneliness consumes me
though he wasn't the man for me
he seemed to be the only one who really loved me
none of these kids know how to really love someone
other than themselves and the bottles in their hand.