a man reads not for enjoyment but to pass the time.
the time that a woman is holding onto because of uncertainty.
the uncertainty of life that hangs like a blade in the air.
the air muddled and rotten with sickness.
the sickness spills over from one body to the next.
“let’s get soup after this”
anything warm, anything comforting.
hospitals feel like i am in limbo
I ask you if you leave or are left
because I want to do what is right
for both of us
in drunken reverie.
My love is constant
for when I am not.
My spirit is free
for when I am here.
My mind is always reaching for you
so please listen.
I am not one to stay
when there is nothing left for me.
stupid love poem. let me ask you a question; are you one to leave or be left? We all do both but we lean towards one or the other. I usually never stay, people need to learn to let go but somehow I'm stuck.
i inhale until the ashes turn white
like the pure once driven snow
now muddled gray
my lungs scorched black
no flowered prose
can escape my lips
dry and cracked earth
i want to rest
and let these embers die
crackle and go out
but they hold on to my labored breath
trying to ignite again.
And in this moment
I have died
and am born again.
A king in cardboard boxes
dances through the drunken haze
a stag steps into the clearing
leading me back to the road
where my family awaits
their songs of pain and life
fall to deadened ears
another second has passed
and I'm back again;
I cut my hair the other day
the hair that you said you loved so much.
You don't know, but I let it grow
like weeds during a drunken spring.
it pooled around my feet and tangled
tripping me every time I tried to run.
it was shorn with a silver razor-sharp blade
in the light of the full moon.
each stand that fell to the ground
gave birth to something new
that grew into something beautiful inside me.
Now that heavy dark curtain is gone from my head,
I am finally ready for the light that awaits me.
Please do not mourn what has been lost;
hair will always grow back
as my love grows stronger.
Something about what I never had
something about what is to come
something about cycling through
again, and again.
02:22 being wistful
I was going to write down my dream from last night but i woke up to you instead.
i miss you but these are words lost in the wind so i will keep them here instead.
— The End —