For the longest time
I've had this romanticized view of lonesome drinking
I picture someone slowly zippin on a drink
and smoking sophistically
in a dull light
while writing great poetry

But when I've finished my 12th beer
and my 28th cigarette
in a dull light
And the only thing I've written
is something ****** like this

that romantic view is dead

Still I know
that tomorrow
Once my hangover is gone
I will do it all over again

He was like music, his heart couldn't even beat without a melody
-S

It is a tiny little box
To write a poem in.
Like a frame before
The painter begins.
But such as it is.
I am but the guest.
What can I care
But hope for best.
In starched white
Blessed chair
I sit the *** of my
words down here.

I've seen how the loss of industry can decimate a town.

Like when that yo-yo factory was closed down
and the workers all hung themselves from lampposts
and just bounced up and down.

Up and down.

You held me in your loving arms as i wept
So sure i had found my way home after my long journey in through frozen land.

Now i'm turning to ash because i stubbornly refused to see that the warmth i thought i needed had left me on fire.
Then you threw me in a coffin,
Nailed it shut with your grin and covered it with the dirt of your promises.

Do you remember way back when?

I still remember the hotel room where I sat.
Fleeing the hand that gripped you.
I gave you words,
they were inadequate. Couldn't admit that I
abandoned you.
My fear grew, ever stronger. My delusion cast about me, a blanket to my conscious mind.

Remember further back when we were all smiles, blind to reality?
I sat with eyes closed for awhile. As if days don't turn to months to years.
Except, I forgot it ends like this.
Blue veins, cracked upon a pale surface.

That's me.

Seeing me.

And you.

For what you are.

For the first time.

maybe love is to watch a thousand winters pass, and still stand by his side because you know he's made of spring