Sometimes I wonder if
I would have showed up
if I would have tried a bit harder
to be there
to respond more
that you may still be sitting
on that bench
writing to me.

"it happens to everyone," I wrote.
you were hurt
you wanted me but
I was half a world away.
I was no help to anyone
myself included.
"you'll get over it and life will go on,"
I wrote.  "just think of me and maybe
one day
I'll be able to come out and see you
or you could make it
out here."

then, I'm not too sure
but now, now I know
it was all a lie.

it was your sister who told me
about you.
it had been almost three weeks
since your last letter.
the next one I got wasn't from you
but about you:
how you jumped from the old stone bridge
the one you wrote your letters to me from.
the one I told you we'd sit by
when I came to visit

I never came to visit and now
I have no reason to.
perhaps you're here with me
maybe you finally made it out
to see me
and this was your way
of making it.

maybe you're here now
and that's why I'm thinking of you...

he tells a tale of life and love lost,
twice
to the same woman
and a third time to a second.
he still loves the one, but, doesn’t say
which one.
but I think I know, and they think they know, too.
they don’t, and neither do I.
another drink goes down and another story starts
and he finishes both quickly, neither meant much to him.
and another of each is there in an instant
both at my request.
his soul falls away, I see it in his eyes when he
speaks about this one.
about the day he almost died.
his lifeless eyes well up with tears
but, none break free.
he does not cry,
not tonight.
we close the place, go to his and have some drinks.
he has wine, I have whiskey. then we both have another.
and another.
I wish him luck and stand to leave.
he tells me to take my luck but that I’m welcome back
anytime.
but to bring the luck back with me,
one day
he might need it.

He always said you didn't
have to live that way to write.
That it wouldn't help,
but
it might not hurt.
I've never starved.
I've never walked cold, lonely, big-city
       streets at night, unless it was
       on purpose.
I've never been in a bar fight,
gone on a a five day binge,
slept on a park bench
or woken up in an alley, beat up and
       hungover with my wallet missing.
I've never thrown a glass against the wall
       in anger while screaming at some
       ***** I didn't like.
I've had some tough jobs
but not like him.
Music is different,
life is different,
time is different,
everything is different.
But I feel just like the guy.
I understand it,
I feel it.
And maybe that just means
that he was a better writer than I am.
And that's true.
But I'm just getting started.
We've both brought on portions of the misery
       ourselves, but it worked for him.
So, lets see what I've got...

Maybe next time I'll do some reading.
I need a desk to sit at.
Less sugar.
a new job,
more time,
enough money,
a pet,
a reason,
a real vacation,
a better idea,
another chance,
another bottle of wine,
a bit of silence
and some time alone;
then,
maybe,
just maybe,
things will start to look a bit better.
Right now though,
the cloud is too dark to see through
and
what little silver lining I can see
is tarnished.

seasons end then: new beginnings
another try at life's routine
a chance to step outside the lines
and follow a new life course.
the path to glory has been paved
and I shall make my way down it
fighting, tooth and nail, relentless
in my pursuit of greatness.
down that road I will forge a legendary
journey, upending all obstacles, simply
because I can, and choose to do so.
a trail will be blazed to the gates
of eternity and I shall be at the forefront
leading on, pressing through, living
until whatever being created me decides
it is the end of my time here, to which
a legacy so great and massive will follow
that I will not soon be forgotten...

People with big dreams
are fooling themselves
and making it harder
on the rest of us.
The rest of us with
no other jobs
that have to care about
what we do to make it by.
We have nowhere else
and the less they try
thinking they will be out
soon enough
to follow those dreams
the harder we have to work to
pick up their slack.
And they wonder where the
pessimism and depression
come from.
Well, it's your fault you
ungrateful , lazy, optimistic
sons-a-*******.