There are seven days a week,
Seven continents,
And seven deadly sins.
Snow White had seven dwarfs,
The rainbow has seven colors,
And I have seven in all my debts.
Maybe it all got decided on December 7.

Seawater on summer
Is what my tears are
When they race down my cheeks;
Hot and salty.
And I knew they did not sidetrack
To evaporate on my lips
But I tasted that bitterness
Caught in my throat
Which my eyes have no power
To splash like the waves
That normally surf my face;
Only accumulate
And let them slam inside me
Repeatedly.
And I wish I did not have to
Watch that movie,
Watch that part of the movie,
Watch that movie's credits rolling,
Repeatedly,
Just to admit
That I cheated on this taste test
And my tears are not salty.
At all.

You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.

I was late,
I couldn't wait to see you;
But the former, more believable
A reason why
I was running the rest of the way
To the house.
I almost cried
First when grandma hugged me,
Second when I thought about it,
Third when we crossed the highway
And you did not hold my hand
Not because there was now a traffic light posted there,
Nor because I now wear my hair red and my eyes lined;
But because all three reasons,
You would rather not believe
Before you even hear,
Than look at me again
And know who to believe.

How many more shots of Jack Daniel's
Will you pour over that glass
Half-full of Coke
And half-empty of enough
Until you get enough?
The sadness in your silence
Makes it hard to tell if you're paying attention
To the voices you hear
Or the thoughts you listen to,
And the more glasses you empty,
Objects you slam intentionally,
And songs you let speak for you,
The more you show the lonely twenty-something
Or more
Is better than the icy spirit I first met
Escaping his bottle
Back in that car ride I will now always remember,
For if it weren't for it,
You wouldn't be good as drunk now,
Sober enough to finally say out loud
What you've been screaming about quietly
In that seat you never sat on
In spite of the last few hours you stayed with us
And the only two or three times you excused yourself out,
And I hope somehow we really did do something
To make you feel better
Or better yet stop you
From feeling at all
For at least a little while,
But I'm pretty sure you only saw us
As a good excuse to finally
Take that bottle of Jack Daniel's
Out of your sight of misery
From that shelf where it was placed
To do you the most good.
So I'll leave you my cheeseburger,
In case you need a reminder
Of the moment you once had company
In that emptiness you call a condo unit,
That will last long enough
Until the next time we say goodbye,
And by then I just might try
To leave something other than
Cold food and disappointment
Upon my answer of “I don't like them”
To your question of whether or not
I know of Backstreet Boys,
And instead provide a better cheerer-upper,
Like a good song or advice or poem,
Than a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Once again, I am not only alive;
But newborn-alive.
Antoine de-Saint Exupery tried to tell us
That besides having the solution to every riddle,
Snakes can also teach us
That we have always been the better creatures
For we shed our insides,
The only touchable things our souls produce;
Instead of our outsides,
And they come out of our only way in
To another soul,
And everytime they do,
We run after our breaths
Like the first time we learned
We actually need it.
We will really always meet ourselves here,
In this middle darkness where we first saw light
And made that womb-to-tomb pact of companionship
With what we came with to this world,
The same thing we'd leave with
Or leave because of,
And leave behind to cause a whole lot more
Shedding of insides
When we finally go the only way,
Which, all along,
Is back...

An animated drawing,
No matter how lifelike,
Can never know life;
Like how a model in a photograph
Can only be so lovely
But never loveable.