long days
turn into
even longer nights
home all alone
tv light and tests
saying
<<i'll be home soon
i had to work late
and i have to go back
after dinner
to finish up my work
i'm so sorry
i couldn't be home>>
and i go about my night
but now
something is missing
someone is missing
and i know
this won't be
the last time
that i'm alone
in this house
all night

she was
a human balancing act
a whirlwind
of pain
and love
and fear
and awe
and lonliness
and she was trying
so hard
to keep everything
where it should be
for if one were to fall
they all would

Dear anyone who hears from
parents, peers, family, friends,
"you really should go to bed earlier."
i say ***** it.
for they are the day-people
but we here
we are the night-people.
and we are flourishing
while everyone else is sound asleep
we are creating
while everyone else is simply dreaming
we are living our lives
while everyone else is tucked safe in bed.
here's to the night-people who must band together,
for while the day-people may never understand,
we know
the beauty
of the night.

my father was the last born in his family and my mother was the last born in her family and I was the middle not first not last in my family and sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if I was born first or last but mostly I know

things

would

be

the

same

I would just be out of college already or I would have no had any alcohol yet but mostly things would stay the same because no matter what the internet might say the birth order really only shows if your family is regular and a regular family is nothing but boring so while I hate to say it I am glad that I am the middle child because

things

would

be

the

same

but altogether different if I did not have someone older to show me the way and someone younger to show me something new each day I would simply be lost if not tucked between the two who seem to have it figured out so while

things

would

be

the

same

they would also be so much different.

Someone once told me
that Hemingway said
to write drunk
and edit sober.

But Hemmingway was an alcoholic
and an *******.

But I am drunk
and writing more words than I have in weeks.

So I find myself in a box
(not unlike a cat)
with walls
filled with words
both mine and
his

I am following in the footsteps
of a man
who died
on a Sunday
with his own gun
set off by his own hand.

But he was a drunk, and I am drunk too.

But he was great, and I want to be great too.

How strange and sad a conundrum.

I do not think
I will ever
be good
again.

What is good
even supposed
to be?

The weight of
goodness
pulls like
the bags under my eyes.

If I question every
action against moral
rules and laws
set up by people
and churches
and friends
and politicians
and parents
how will I ever
discover the truth myself?

if we took a look
at the moral values
of every being on earth
there would be plenty
that appall each of us
but to them
living those values
is exactly goodness.

The idea of
goodness
is entirely
up to
those living the life
they think is good.

There is no one way to be good. There is no one good.

The light is reflecting off of the wooden fire escape
I can hear many noises on the street below tonight,
but I cannot see them because of the angle
that my bed with blue sheets is tucked into the corner.
I think I can be happy here.
If not happy, at least okay
for a while
while I figure out
what life could look like
after the May flowers.
My running shoes are in the corner
looking hopeful
and a tiny wooden chess set I haven’t been good enough to play
sits on my windowsill.
Maybe as the seasons change,
I will too.