Sharp residual, a residue.
Built up animations yet to come
to life, by the movement of limbs,
words, energy, actions.
If not to empty them, at least to
mock myself in a mirror,
watch my image come to life
upon the ground. The last vestige,
silent perpetrator, a shadow
more direct than aversions
to practice in speech what will
only idle; sleep while
waiting for the now to become
never, to bleach clean the war
torn attrition no one could ever
listen to.

Just another panic attack,
as the surrounds of peripheral
color themselves darker than
the center of attention,
my disheartened hope makes
focal point, reference point
numero uno.
There can be no growth forward,
when emptiness contaminates, like
a spill upon a slate counter top
of a soul. Super absorbent, no fiber
can clean the mess of this, this
story untold.

Still, many versions exist,
have existed.
Written, copied and kept
as sacred script. The letters,
the poetry, the books, the
pleading lost vesicle; words
written by blood, birthed by
deepening scars, covered by a sincere
heart.
Cutting along the edges,
remembering to stay within
the lines, just make sure you're
gone, completely cut out.

Chased in perpetual silence-
watching the steam circle,
then dissipate, a taunting of
my attached heart floating,
rising, disappearing above my
cup of coffee.

I like to think I drink it for
its energy inducing pleasure.
I can now rest assured I drink
it for the memories, the
memoirs, the voices, the
fidgety way I can distract myself
from retracing the incident all
the way back.

Conscious enough to know I
must rise above the toxicity.
I just feel sometimes,
"I can barely breathe!"
Why my God?
Why does it feel like my words,
my sincere want to again
be me falls helplessly,
empty, uselessly upon the
deaf ears, the handle of my steaming
cup of coffee.

Half empty, half full,
when it comes to coffee this
psychological tool doesn't
feel too relevant.
Tepid now, do I warm it up?
Do I throw it back?
Do I get a refill?
There seems so much more
I must trace through the
tunnels of thinking.
Beep, Beep, Beep,
start- murrrrrrr-
I topped it off, then warmed
it up. Looks like another long
night of soul searching, open
desk top windows, and
reminding myself I don't need ****
to get me through this.
Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeep!

I've concocted a beautiful new
image. One I have not the
artistic capability to reproduce,
or audacity to bring to life.
But my words, my coffee,
will be both the art, and the muse.

A skillfully drawn eye.
An eye in all its symmetry,
eyelashes, eyelids, tear duct,
pupil, coloring;
green if you're asking.
From the edges fingernails have
buried themselves just around
the eye, and have already
begun tearing backward.
(presumably, there may need to be
the structure, or knowledge
of a brow.)
Blood has begun running.
Some of the blood has formed
channels, tracing the well worn
path of natural tears.

The streams culminate at the
base of the eye, where droplets
are forming.
Below this eye, their destination.
A journal, a notebook lay open,
the title at the top reads
"Insidious Vapid Amor"
A pen lay diagonally in
orientation across the page.
To the right, or left depending
on the artistic rendering,
preference, a cup of coffee.
The page, the rim of the cup, the pen
are spattered with the droplets
from above.
But in the coffee rises
the conical effect of a droplet that
has just crashed against the
surface tension of my coffee,
anyone's coffee.
-One last sip-
but not a coming goodnight;
chased in perpetual silence,
while my empty coffee cup reminds
me I'm empty too.