Half asleep feet shuffle in aimlessly;
Water fills the celestial coffeepot.
Chocolate brown grounds by a spoon are allot.
A spoonful spills to the floor! This marks its tragedy.
Another, another, so painfully,
This tragedy would make any distraught.
How can sleep be torn from eyes so bloodshot
Without the black elixir so holy?

The sleepy feet walk through the garage door,
Each brooms' handle is long like cold harpoons.
It sweeps up the wasted dreams on the floor.
"I measured out my life in coffee spoons."1
The tedious toil begins once more,
And so go the morning coffee mistunes.


1 - From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

do you ever feel like...
like you're ethereal, ghostly?
a fantasy existing in your own mind.
maybe the reason they don't see you is
because you're not real.


do you ever feel like...
like you walk alone in company?
flitting through dimensions,
enough in their world to exist
but wholly invisible within yours.


do you

do you ever wish

to be seen?
that someone would just
******* notice you for once?

Who are all of you?
What are you?
Am I human like you too?
If so, then why is there a pane of glass
Separating me from you?

I've been out here in the cold,
Looking in my whole life.
I once tried knocking on the glass;
Gently tapping with my fingertips -
ra-ta-tat-tat.
I think the music was playing too loud
For any of you to hear.

Just when I was ready to accept my fate:
Freeze to death and meet my maker -
She took my gloved hand in her own
So we could both look in together.

A flow, a pen, an ink stained palm.
A life, a story, all gone wrong.
A spark of hope in the night, maybe?
No, your hope is grammatically incorrect.

"This is where your sentence could have ended
but it didn't," see?
Nonetheless, it wants so desperately to end.
An incomplete thought, a fragment -
A fragmented existence with an expired due date.

Can you pick up the forlorn pieces?
Use your calloused fingers to avoid getting cut.
You continued the sentence,
But you used the semicolon wrong.

What do I have to do to be her?
Your god-sent angel,
Taking dainty steps down a golden staircase;
Descending from a city unknown to living men.
I'll have a paper sign stapled to my chest,
With narrow streams of blood down to my toes,
And words in pink marker scrawled across the paper:
"The One - Yours Truly, a False god."

She thinks she's all grown up;
She walks in thinking that she's a full grown
Woman,
Turning her ankle to show off that tiny heel.

She overdrew her lips
Higher than the empire state.
Her tiny eyes dart down the aisles.
Do you really think you can sniff out
A hot stud at the local WalMart?

Her soul tricked itself,
Roaring like it's a lion.
She'd do anything to make herself forget
That she's only a tiny girl.

And there she stands,
Scanning a tiny bag of chips,
Then stealing a beer at the self-checkout.
What a grown up thing to do.

I took a drive on a manic day,
And turned the corner way too fast.
My actions caught up to me at last,
And I crashed my car on life choice lane.

So I stood there as the engine smoked,
And pondered on nonsensical things:
Such as how the caged bird still sings
Despite a shortage of dopamine.

Hallowed be thy name o' Lorde,
Somehow still playing through my radio.
Sound waves bounce against the pavement and echo,
Making the loneliness even louder.

I'm left to kick rocks on life choice lane.
There's a dent in the stop sign pole
For everyone who has paid the toll
Of dealing with my sorry ***.

But now they're gone,
And now I'm gone.