It’s not really clear
through smoke
and stale beer
the reason
we’re here is
‘cause
dopamine steers…

I am well practiced in the art of heartache
Fluent in the language of grief
Versed in the routine of melancholy

I walk through this life marred by loss

Each day representing my triumphant victory over every obstacle existence has thrown at me

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)