Feeling fond of my own two feet
I lock the bike, let the wind cool the heat
I'm the one with the illegible handwriting
writing, nonetheless, on the porch
sustained by cigarettes and self doubt
for how else do I know that I'm sane?

Thoughts on the page, a tricky task
ink implying some permanence
if I write it
it is
at least on this page

unnervingly nervous, even at the most receptive times
the thoughts have a path, but can you draw the line?
only one will fit, not two
if you find it or not isn't my concern
it isn't my concern at all

But still it feels good to let words fall
flat on the page, flat on their face
exposed for what they've been all along
just words, good words bad words
just words, no overarching ideas
archetypes cast upon sounds and letters

I wonder if I'll be able to read this
certain bits may become muddled but by how much
less, I'm sure, than by the reader
hello reader, yes you. yes me.
I don't address you often enough, but
it's certainly you and no one else that
brings me to life, back to life

These flat ideas, shadows of flatter ideals
toes dipped in self doubt, but only dipped
should we submerge them, or is that too

much.

putting the pen down never feels whole
maybe it's because I rarely write about anything anymore
**** it, goodbye, till next time, my dear