We were not our most intimate
When my kiss was on your lips.
We were not our most intimate
When our hands clasped onto our hope together.
We were not our most intimate
When I scribbled poetry onto your skin
Or when I tattooed my love into your heart.
When I held onto you so close and made you promise me you'd never let go
We were not our most intimate.

When you were on the other side of a room
Filled with tons of people,
And a lesson going on in school
About something important,
But through it all
You caught my eye,
Held onto it,
And finally
Smiled.
That's when we were intimately in love.

I have questions, like why do some go before me,
Or why is it that the hairs in my left nostril grow faster than those in my right?
What thoughts or images filled my mother's mind while she retreated into it,
Not recognizing those she brought into the world?
There must be signs
Somewhere,
For someone
As to how I can get answers.
But more importantly, are these the best questions to be asking?

he came as promised
he returned disappointed
a sh

              a        t

                      t
           ­                         e           r

                                     e                   d
                                                               ­           image

Several years ago I became depressed
And fled from my independence
Into the seductive arms of my home
In the hope that it would cure me of my
Chronic feelings of discomfort, angst, and misery.
In my head, it was a sanctuary,
A place I could go to free my mind
And find warmth and comfort.
Nothing has changed in my head
And I had forgotten how much of a nomad
I actually was and that home is just a myth
We tell ourselves to make ourselves feel
Warm and fuzzy and not so desperately alone
And now I'm wondering why all I found here
Was perpetual headaches and continued heartache
With the added benefit of cake.

It starts off, I suppose,
being an escape.
From harsh noise,
from the crushing weight of suburbia.

Somewhere along the line
(a month, two years)
the reason changes.
It's gratifying having a secret;
the gas station clerk doesn't know,
your parents, your girlfriend,
your professor, your little sister.

They don't know you have enough dope to last three days.
They don't know your only concern is getting another score.

You smile, you sigh,
you meet for coffee,
you dig through the thrift rack,
you go to see a movie.
you don't smack in their view,
you don't snort in their presence.

That's your secret.
You no longer receive pleasure from the dope, the high is only to chase away the low.
You're different, you're set apart,
you have a secret and its consistently exhilarating.

Eventually, if say, you leave for three months, they'll notice the twenty pounds you lost, they'll notice the paling of your skin, they'll notice the apathy in your gaze, and they'll say
'Hey buddy, you doing ok?'
and you'll say
'Don't worry about me lover friend, rice and beans, rice and beans and easy living'


Phillip K **** says he can fairly well sum up sober living with one quote he heard from an ex ******. That quote is "if I had known it was harmless, I would have killed it myself"

you laugh until ya cry