it's been a season
like no other.

who would figure
out this blunder
would be ours?

i thought we had it all.
it felt so real,
felt so strong.

but now, i just sit here,
down with no faith
it's coming back up.
___
they'll raise a drink or two
and party all night long.

they'll be the talk of the town
and all around.

that could have been us.
oh, that should have been us.

___

mark my words, i won't forget yet.
even when it hurts, i know i still love you.
maybe it wasn't that we weren't meant
to see the golden light,
maybe it just wasn't our turn that night.

now they're walking around in their best outfits.
they're smiling with a smile that should
have been ours.

oh, i don't know how i'll feel tomorrow,
but if it's anything like today,
it'll still be heartbreak and sorrow.

___
they'll raise a drink or two
and party all night long.

they'll be the talk of the town
and all around.

that could have been us.
oh, that should have been us.
___

they will light up the skies
with fireworks of their own shades of gold.

they've told me this pain wouldn't last forever,
but i'm not sold.

maybe next season, we won't fall
like the winter snowflakes did.

maybe next season, we'll have it all.
we will be the champions,
but not this time.

___
they'll raise a drink or two
and party all night long.

they'll be the talk of the town
and all around.

that could have been us.
oh, that should have been us.
____

it's been a season
like no other.

who would figure
out this blunder
would be ours?

You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

It is in that moment,
mid-city, with people
everywhere there is to be,
that you seek an outlet
for catharsis.

Not the alley though,
because alleys are
still open to these
passersbys.

We found ourselves
in a parking garage,
not for our cars
as he takes the P12
while I'm a red-liner,
but because we
found that outlet.

We entered the elevator
on floor 1,
and we clicked floor 7.
For 15 seconds,
70 feet was heaven.

And then on floor 7,
we clicked for floor 1.

And  you can guess
what happened at floor 1.

And you can guess
what I meant by heaven.

Again. Again. Again.

Freud says tattoos
Are
The Manifestation
Of a
Trauma

Every point
A
Separate pain
We
Have
Suffered

It took
Two
And a
Half
Hours

To complete
The
Diary
Of my
Trauma

And half a million perforations

To convert
Those
Memories
Into something

New

And

Beautiful

To finally
Let go
Of the past

I keep throwing gasoline on my already burning problems.

I'm addicted to the pain.