I hate her.
Because I've never.
Seen,
Anyone.

As beautiful.

And, I can't control.
The way I act.
Even though.

I know.
Better.

What would it be like
If towards the end of our lives
They showed a movie
Of our life and times

What would it be about
Would it draw a big crowd
What would the rating be
And would kids be allowed

Would they laugh or cry
Gladly pay the full price
When the scary parts played
Would they cover their eyes

Would we be ashamed
If our families came
At the end of the film
Would they see us the same

Would it be action packed
A Super Hero unmasked
If nobody else
Would our kids be impressed

Would they be happy or sad
When the credits rolled past
Would the movie explain
We did our very best

What would they find
If towards the end of our lives
They showed a movie
Of our life and times

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

They're all a bit
fuzzy around the
edges,
what with the constant
flux in personalities
and tastes
and it's strange to
watch them try to freeze
the liquid in their souls
so as to have something solid
to hold onto in the rocking
of the seas
and maybe I notice that because
it's a reflection of me
or maybe the secret is
that when I look at people

I don't see them at all.

I hear Buddha
whispering something
in the corner
both profound
and simple
(not that the two are mutually exclusive)
and I'm sitting here
not raging
I don't "rage"
at anything
but I do find this world
so
so....

Unsatisfactory

But I'm not sure why
since things are pretty
okay right now
all things considered
and we must remember
to consider
all things
like
the lobster
the children
the inevitable heat-death of the universe
and rejoice
in our abilities to consider
and to evolve
things like the
poetry we write
by adding creative
spacing
as a flourish for
simple words
that feel profound when
we write them
but when we read them
they are as obvious
as they ever were.

i'm sorry—
i'm not your youth
or the smiles that i shared with you
so long ago

i'm just another minute
on your weeping clock
shriveling up,
winding
down