I haven't even been writing for myself anymore.
Does that still make me a writer,
or an entertainer?

The most painful rejection
always seems to come from someone
who already told you they'd never leave your side.

You say
he made you feel like never before,
but so did alcohol honey.

I found myself humming again to the beat of nothing
and the birds are singing with me,
trying to control the pitch and find the harmony.

Recently, I've been on the outskirts looking through the
broken glass of other people's homes trying to make
sense of the dust that settles at the core but never
around the corners and it comes to my attention
that people do not thrive off of happiness,
but rather pain. At their most vulnerable
they are the most loving; but at their
least, they can be so careless, so
blind, so naïve.

gd