Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.

He is not the type of man who will remain ruined.
Or to let blood stop a fight.
He's not the type of man to stay silent
In corruption and leisure.
He's not the type of man to sit and think
He speaks. He yells. He growls.
He hunts and drinks. Throws the bad to the ground
And the good he leads with purpose.
He has the power.
On his own.
To make and to destroy.
He is not the type of man
To be any type of man.

If she were to fall
She would be the last to know.
She keeps her chin held that high
The only thing she sees is the stars.
No one would notice
Him pulling her down.
She's hypnotizing.
They'd only see the stars too.

May I please be honest?
Just, for once today, tell the truth
About something that means nothing
To absolutely everyone reading this.
It's just one, single, honest statement.
From me to you.
That you can trust with all your heart
And that I can put all of my spirit into
Because I know it won't ever betray me.
I just want to be real.
To make it known that I'm capable
Of honesty.
Here goes.
I hate the cold. It gives me headaches.
And makes me lonely.

If you don't buy me some wine
Then I'm just going to take shots of that **** ***** my cousin bought me
Alone in my room
Until I forget about this week
And finally get some sleep.
You know what...
I'll do that anyways.
Wine or no wine
Today is the day to start
Drinking again.
And making mistakes I can blame on something other than myself.

This morning I cried twice.
Once walking to school.
It was dark, and it was cold.
And I was going to meet with God
We needed to talk about something
And He wasn't
Saying what.
So I pulled my brother's old flannel shirt
Around my coffee stained top
And cried right there
In front of a homeless person
Waiting for a bus that wasn't coming.
Then I cried again
Because I still had no idea
What God wanted from me.
And it dawned on me
That that was the point.

There's a complex on the corner of three streets
Just south of something and north of something else.
One time a girl stood there crying in the rain all alone
Waiting to get picked up by anyone who wouldn't ask where her tears came from.
All she could say was she was sorry.
At night there's this dog that barks for no reason
No matter how loud you are, or how quiet you are. It must just be the flowers.
They look like a 13-year-old girl's experiment with make-up.
And they smell like dust in your nose.
Follow the road north to the pharmacy and the convenience store
Conveniently next to a windowless brothel and an indie movie theater.
Follow it south and you'll get an organic market, loose tea shops, and gelato.
Funny how that happens.
If you stand on this corner you'll see cars lining the street in every direction
Squealing and shaking with each extra body shoved inside to enjoy the beautiful dumpster view.
And maybe a pool that no one uses.
There's a complex on the corner of three streets where Atlas goes to shrug his shoulders.
And complain about how heavy his job is.
Loudly tending to his messed up joints.
Drinking with passers-by and sleeping with women who came by to massage his limbs.
Gently, tenderly, and maybe a bit rough every now and then.
Atlas lives, owns, and runs this whole **** town.
And let me tell you, he's in great shape.