I’m really not here today,
not really in time with the rest of the world,
just floating,
generic and grey,
through the hands of the clock
as if they were made of water.
Time today
ebbs and flows, a tidal wave
of muddy water,
and with each hard hit to the face,
each urgent push at my back,
I am angry,
a strange sentiment,
so alien that I didn’t recognize
its face
until just now,
and I figured that if it were to stay hidden
(for it must stay hidden)
then I should probably write it out,
fling these feelings at the screen
and forget.
However, the right adjectives,
the beautiful nouns and the glorious verbs
are not coming to me
and it hurts to admit it, but
I am still angry.

you make me feel beautiful
and that, to me
is a superpower
your cape of words, your compliments
keep saving me, and i swear
there’s something surreal here, insane
i feel lifted, caught
by more than just the wind beneath my feet
no, i’m more poetic than that
i feel
almost worth it, almost beautiful
almost ready

oh my goodness, this man's hands
are beautifully sad, all thin
and winding themselves into the fence
as he waits for the train
and then he turns, cigarette clenched
between thin lips
and scowls in my direction
and suddenly, those hands
are foul and *****,
becoming part of the chain-link metaphor
for loneliness
all i can think today is
wow, people ****

four squares, now three
of dark chocolate, the kind of dark
that makes me feel like a grown-up
although it's childish of me to say it that way
but then again, it's been that kind of day
and that kind of chocolate, only two squares left now
and the sweetness is never enough
to drown out the bitterness of five cups of coffee
oxygen staining my cheeks a bright pink
as i move through a tiring day, drinking
cup after cup of darkness, feeling
shot after shot of energy, extending
my day, inch by inch
cup by cup
square by square, almost midnight
and there's only one left
one crutch
and yet i know there are excuses
for these vices
after all, it's not *******
i say this every day, to each complaint
and my hand wavers a bit, the left one
sometimes it shakes
and i clench it tight, proving that i can still control myself
it's only a side effect
of something, anything
these are only crutches, just
something, anything
to push me through the day
and up through the night, until finally
i can sleep
and it feels right

does it make me weird
if i’m still thinking about it?
i swear it’s nothing but the good;
five or so hours later and i can still feel
your hands, running smooth lines up my back
and rough ones from my hip up to my hair,
almost desperate in their attempt
to hold on.
i was there, fully aware
of you, you and your shifting footsteps,
off-balance, while i stood and tried
to keep the cold at bay-
even though my skin was chilled,
my bones were warm and stable
and i did what i could to keep us from falling,
tumbling onto the grass
although
i may have thought about
the cold ground, and considered it
as an option.
is it strange
that i am writing about this?
tell me, is it so bad that i just want
to tell someone, to explain myself, to say
that i’m still drunk,
almost six hours later now, intoxicated
with that worn-out metaphor, but it describes this
perfectly,
this weird haze of colourful clarity
that separates me, even now
from the cold, dark wind.
i feel drunk, and i’ve felt it before
and i know that when i wake up tomorrow
there will be no headache, no regret
only a small, knowing smile on my face
as i get up, get dressed
and shove my hands in my pockets, fingers crossed
that you and i will go drinking again today.

we were having
a beautiful conversation
and then you used the phrase:
"that ***** monkey *****"
and ruined my poem
**** you, i said
to the half-moon clippings
as i trimmed my nails at 2 am
this will never be a masterpiece now

this was once
an empty page
i filled it
wishing all the rage
of another poet's words
upon the paper
since i have none of it

this was once
an empty page
i stole the space, stained it
with my own black-and-blue lines
like small, needlepoint bruises
saying
this will only hurt a little
but still
i'm glad it's not me bearing the burden
of all these words

this was once
an empty page
and i bow down to your strength, dear paper
for taking upon your shoulders
every scratch that i offer
every scene i remember

this was once
an empty page

i filled it
and now i am empty again