I need to write a letter, in curling cursive blue,
and mail it to me, it doesn't matter what the words say
I just want to see them scrawled on the page, to remind me
I am seventy minus eight, and my symmetry in script
is increasingly askew

I know this
when I press ******* the pen,
when I fold the paper, lick the envelope,
and drop it in the blue metal world where its flat life
commingles with strangers until it comes back to my red and white box,
into my black and white life, where the average of the two is gray,
the growing, groping color of my beard,
and the hair on my heaving chest.

I need not even open it to know I have forgotten
what secrets I writ...the name and address suffice,
showing me not who I be or where I be, but how slanted and sloping
my world has become, no matter how vainly I endeavor to keep things straight,
of late, and more tomorrow, my dysgraphic lines
tell the truer tale, in the simple scribbled letter
I wrote to me

I long to be desired--
    Not just once, but always.

I long to be desired--
    Like the way a child plays, with his favorite toy.

I long to be desired--
     Not by many, but by you.

I long to be desired--
     I love me, do you love me too?

Money cannot buy happiness

My mother
Has a collection of jewelry
Diamonds are her favorite
Hers are pure and glimmering
She wears them on her hands
And over her heart
She has a collection
Of shiny things
They all sit pretty on her body
Glowing against her tan skin
But their worth is still not enough
To cure her instability
Or ease the anxiety that never leaves
She has all of these beautiful things
But still relies on antidepressants and nicotine
To make it through the day
And even after that
She is still not content
Money does not buy happiness

My father
Has a love for cars
He has spent his earnings
On greatly crafted vehicles
They are kept well and clean
They glisten
Shining almost as bright
As my mother's diamonds
They are fast
And smooth
Like his collection of fine liquor
All of the bottles lined up neatly
15 year, 18 year, 20
All of them rich in age
He has a lot of nice things
But at the end of the day
Still requires multiple glasses of whiskey
To wash out the bitterness of life
And the memories
Of how close he came to losing it
He has all of these cars
That take him from place to place
But it is still he
Who has to drag himself out of bed
Each morning to face the world
And even then
He is still not at ease
Money cannot buy happiness

Celebrities
Have lives that most would envy
But even they can be consumed by darkness
And fall victim to their own sadness
Money cannot buy happiness

The man who lives next door
Has a beautiful house
And a lot of things
To fill it
His home is never empty
But I can tell that he is
His eyes give it away
Money cannot buy happiness

I have
So much to be thankful for
I am provided
With more than one could ever need
And my level of privilege is beyond doubt
But most days
I struggle to make it through this one
And on to the next
It is always a never ending battle
Between me and myself
Between my mind and my sanity
Most nights
I fall asleep to a mix of ambien and panic
Having to **** my thoughts
With substance
I am overwhelmed
By constant fear
By frequent depersonalization and depression
Often feeling sad and then guilty

Because I have everything
I could ever ask for
But I am still not happy
These material things
Are not enough
To fill the gaping hole expanding within me
And there is a lot
That money can buy
But happiness
Is not one of them.