I deleted a picture of us
I think it's really over

You once said getting a picture with the guy you're seeing
Is the death knell of a relationship in your life

It looks like you weren't wrong.

Dearest, how good it is to see you.
Remember the “I love you”?
I meant it; I still do
But love changes
And so have you,
And being honest
I have too.
So where does that leave us?
I’m asking tú
Because, being honest:
I’ve no idea what to do.

You’re married now
Were married, how?
Where did you go for
so long?
I heard he was a replacement
You decided on engagement
And your wedding was the
happiest day of your life.

I’m happy for you,
I was, am, and still do have joy seeing you
But now I’m wondering
What in the world to do…
Now that you’re asking me to be with you.

You store, my friend,
All that I care about.
You and I are not too far from similar... brothers perhaps.
We seem to like the same music
You seem to dig my literature
My writings
My every file
My pics, My loves, hell, even my cookies.
I'm sorry they aren't of the baked variety.
Thanks pal,
I suppose you and I aren't so dissimilar after all.
Now if only I were to become a
disembodied storer of data...
*We'd practically be twins.

I was going to write something
But my mind turned desert
For there was nothing fruitful to say
And the fount from which I drank
Ran dry

I use periods as often as a pregnant woman
This is only true in prose
I guess, I want you to fit in these words
where you fit best

I write for me, but on a grander scale, for you
Yes, you, the one staring at these words
letting them soak into the creases of your cranial-matter
I've gotten past the membrane now

Now you're thinking
What the hell is he sinking
into this mind of mine
The answer is gibberish
always has been
almost always will be

I travel down hallways to capitalize properly
I burn the gardens of sincerity by striking the match of clarity
I even pricked my finger on a safety pin, once

I call this prose,
but who really knows
and who can clarify?
These are words
jumbled together
to form a mind-worm
I hope you're infected

We don't own money
It's True
In Capitalist society
Money owns you

Drifting
Ever so slowly
Around You
Me
Drifting
Ever so slowly
Around Me
You
Drifting
Ever so slowly
Closer
Closer
Closer
You//Me
Me\You
Closer
Closer
Closer
Drifting
Ever so slowly
Coming
Ever so close
Until one of us collides
Creating a fiery inferno
That ingulfs
You//Me
Me\You
Flame

Life seems darker as of late,
Is it the change of seasons,
Or have the rose-colored glasses fallen off my face?
I’m still not sure how many days I have left;
I’ve wanted to unhinge my jaw with a revolver for the past week and a half.
I ain’t no ghetto’s son,
I am a privileged white male,
Out the ***.
It’s ******, but it’s true.
I mean, sure, I grew up on a street with no lights on outside,
And I got a knife pulled on me in front of my house, but what’s that say about me or you?
I am a counter-cultural mess and a half.
That’s what it seems like, from my end of the teeter-totter.
I thought I was my father last night, but that bullet’s dodged… I ain’t have no daughters.
I feel like my prescriptions read “desperation”, and the puffs that I blow read “sloth”.
But I’m just doing what I can, being cut from the same cloth.

I haven't written in some time.*
He said, as he glanced longingly at the pen
Knowing, tonight, just like any other
He would leave it lone, to gather dust.

It's that moment,
where you realize
how broken you really are

And all you can say is sorry.

I don't deserve Your forgiveness
Nor Your attention
But I will keep asking for it
And hopefully stop falling

I hope to turn it into a poem.
We shall see.
That's pretty much it.
This is a ****** poetry.