pocket full of pennies
rolling across the kitchen floor,
down the steps, out the door,

pennies running into the street
(and i'm right behind them.)

"where do you think you are going? and
I m feeling a bit embassed, so i whispered.
"you belong to me,

to keep or to throw away." and

there s a light tap on my shoulder,
and the policeman tells me,

"better find them soon
before they turn to rust,

I couldn't find mine
and I'm sure they turned into dust."

and the echoe from the hole
in my pocket shouts,
" his dreams are
trying to find the waterline."

i did find a few of them, a handful,
(I had swiped my hand as they tried to roll away)

I did grasp a few

but some of the other
pennies i threw into the air
where they may have fallen,
I know not where.

Watch me as I'm dreaming
shortened breath and fear
inside my head I'm screaming
since she left me lying here

I'm trying to recover
to become a man once more
poor broken hearted lover
feeling rotten to the core

Praying to the heavens
for redemption of my soul
I'm at sixes and at sevens
as I fall into a hole

Darkness is my traitor
yet I treat it as a friend
goodbye and see you later
I think I'm going round the bend

Wishful eternal sphere formed by emotion
Where shatters come together in love
A new day whispers promises of hope and dreams reborn
As cloudy purple skies dissipate against receding storms
New life blossoms into a new dawn.

Pain within my every word
Mental instability
Never very kind or patient
Definitely not conducive to tranquility

Oh to be free all I long for
World exterminated of hate
Something I've dreamt about often
Life has refused to cooperate

Relaxation an overstayed houseguest
Won't take my subtle hints to leave
Some think I enjoy lazy demeanor
Desperately wish goals I could acheive

I'm not worthless degenerate
Just process events differently than most
A am a lost soul fighting depression
Inside haunted by a nameless ghost

With zero way to discover a road to bliss
Words I scribble my comfort when dark
Everything is a fleeting experience
Perception altered by every harmful remark

Is swallowing truth so hard
That it sticks in back of my throat?
If it is I'll forcefully choke it down
Weight why it's difficult to float

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham