A simple thought
refuted by a small voice
the face in the mirror
shattered by a preconceived notion
a leaf falls off a branch
because the seasons change
or because the wind convinced it to
realms beyond our own
entered only by those dreamed worthy
or by anyone with a sense
four corners make a prison
but do the walls even exist?

My father is the music.
My hearts rhythm a show of puppetry.
A creation of passion, constructed solitude,
Packing my world with repeated withering words
In which meaningless love wanders, until it is
Personal.
Too high, too drunk, too moved by music,
That ****** harmonica, guitar, microphone, even spoons
These utensils too forgetful to notice,
Other senses,
What past notes have created.
You are a monster music, that calms
And rages, carves out playgrounds of feeling.
Music sculpts everything, it defines me.
Yet, if it is truly bad, off key, or sharp,
Nothing sung, written, or played
Can bring the sound of stories solace.

you’re saying too much,
                too slow,
but I’m able to whip
through my part quicker,
lingering on only what
seems important—

your shoes, never
matching mine
your shirt, short-
sleeved between business
             and pleasure
your eyes—
strong and gentle in
that instant of gratification,
coming together through
our voices, coming to a
****** and then letting
go with our tongues

In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.

I wake up.

I go to my window.

The Sun is out.

But not For Long.

The Smog is Creeping in.

That ****** toxic cloud.

Filled with poison. Filled with Sadness. Filled with Pain. Filled with Destruction. Filled with Anger. Filled with Loss.

Full of Fear. Full of Hurt. Full of Death. Full of Worry. Full of Hate. Full of Darkness.

The Wonders of the World are gone and have been replaced by the trillion terrors.

The Sun is out, But the Smog is rolling in.

So I walk. I walk.

I am Outside Now and I see That ****** Cloud slithering in front of that beautiful sun.

And I breathe. I inhale the ugliness. The Branches of my Lungs begin to wither as that cloud invades my body. I breathe and I breathe, never exhaling. My eyes begin to tear. My body becomes weak.

But I keep breathing. I breathe for my brothers, for my sisters, for my fathers, for my mothers, I Breathe.

I breathe for my sons and for my daughters. I breathe for all. I breathe in the disgust so they don’t have to. So they NEVER have to.

I choke.

And as my body becomes a shell and my soul decides to depart. My Brothers, My Sisters, My Fathers, My Mothers, My Sons, My daughters, they breathe in to me.

They give me purity and strength through air that has never tasted so sweet.

They bring me back and they carry me inside where I lie down next to my wife, next to my husband.

And I sleep.

With a Smile on My Face.

I remember the smell of summer rain
and how thunderstorms used to help me sleep when I was young.
I remember St. Patrick’s Day
and how the grass always seemed more green than any other day of the year.
I look at pictures of my family when I was eight
and it’s a harsh truth to admit
that I don’t remember much about my parents being together.

I remember having a sense of wonder in my childhood
that now I see was so precious and rare.
If we could all have that astonishment at the little things in life as adults
the world would be a much happier place.

Colors are no longer as vibrant.
I’ve started to look into the darkest corners of my mind
and the world to find new miracles and beautiful tragedies.

Christmas used to mean love, family and comfort.
Sleeping underneath the tree, the smell of pine needles would lull me.
Nowadays, gin is as close as I get from January to November.
With each sip, it’s the bitter taste of Christmases past
and the ripe, sweet smell of nostalgia.

People walk into my life through many doors and exit unexpectedly as well.
I’m in a forest, it all looks the same.
I turn at every tree with moss
Desperately searching for something new
and the hardest part is always searching
Never knowing which path leads to demise.

The friends that I keep are the ones I hold close
Are the good ones that stick through the depths of it all.
I remember the smell of my mother’s perfume
Yet the sound of her voice becomes more distant with each passing month and year.

Saturday morning cartoons used to be enough.
This wine is my blood and my blood has boiled out.

How to define pain and how to escape the wreckage?
I used to believe that time heals but the opposite has proven itself to be true.
The more details become unclear and fuzzy,
the sharper the knife becomes.
The more it hurts with passing days.  

I once heard that mourning is like being inside of a snow globe with flurries with slick, stealthy blades that sometimes float by and sometimes cut deep with no warning.
Time sharpens the daggers and that is a truth that is time(less).
Trust meant the world and gullibility was not a death sentence.
As we age, we find new ways to cope. We get by.

My dreams have been vivid and coated in a melancholy feeling
that I can’t break no matter how hard I try.
Woken up by the drunken calls of lush fools in the grass outside of my window,
I close my eyes and try to slip back into sleep.
Meeting failure, the clock taunts by the second
Synced with the laughter of the people outside, surrounded by friends.

Some say the glass is half full, some half empty.
I say the glass is being poured to the brim, on tap.
I take comfort in the solitude I used to curse in the early hours when slumber never came.