new year, new me.
old year, old me.

why can't i separate my problems, one from the other?
they just carry over.

I sound like him; we write poetry the same
and the silk flows from our lips creating a road
to the unknown dustiness that is passion.
we are splattered paint.

i am negative like her; we expect too much
from ourselves and from others in such
a fashion as to make our lives and those of others
completely and totally miserable.

i am the lone feather drifting into the weathered
blue green sheet that is the ocean.

the question is whether i will sink
or i will float.