Know that you are nothing more than a puddle.

Starting off as a pure droplet,
                    falling to this earth in a rush of adrenaline and confusion.
Then you collect and form.
                    Become involuntarily tainted by the world around you.

But in your stagnant existence there is beauty.
           You reflect every detail in the world around you.
                               You become that world.

               The generations of growth and survival in every twist of a redwood.
               The dreams of a million men in the windows of a skyscraper.
               The unexplored wonder of the crevasse of every mountain.

And soon, we will be returned to the sky, only to fall
and reflect another world.

Smoking under the Friday Night Lights.
                 Counting change,
                              **** work for minimum wage.

Small talk of unreachable heights.
                  A young mind with a big dream,
knowing none of this is worth it,
in the grand scheme.

You can keep your job
                         I didn’t want it anyway.

Running things like you are Don of the
                                                                      pizza mob.

Although, I do appreciate,
the liquor money to drink until self-hate,
                   and cigarettes to survive the hang-over.

The trees bare themselves for winter.

While we barricade.

It's time for the ***** snow and the drippy nose.
Stressful dinners
                 and
                        hand-me-down clothes.

Thanksgiving house-fires
                          and
                                 Christmas suiciders.

So bundle up!
And arm yourself with holiday cheer.
                                         Because we'll be lucky to make it this year.

Open the window once again,
                                  and let the morning in.

Last night seeps through my body like a disease.

I need the cold breeze.
                            And the hot coffee
                                           And the leftover cigarette,
                                                                                lone veteran of the night.

Now I wipe the sleep from my eye, because.
                                        Today will be alright.

Each morning
close to ten.
I get a call from Egypt,
                                        or India.
Exotic places, that I will never see.
Flooding with people I will never meet.
                                But Ahmed calls everyday.

When the phone rings, and I see the number.

I want to sing him a song.

                       Picture message him masterpieces.

                                                           Text him epics.

In a sea of instant hang-ups,
              and hot-headed drunks.
                      Poverty stricken parents,
                                                    and last straw leaps.

In the ocean of anger and grief,
I want to be the voice that reads poetry.

The next time we see each other,
                                we'll be smiling.
                                                        ­      And happy,
that there are others to fill the void, created by
     embarrassment
               and
                    pain.

And while we avoid eye-contact.
And ask our acquaintance-esque questions.
We'll momentarily wonder why we don't see more of each other.

Then happily walk our separate ways.

We all
share the night.

Tease the campfire,
and toss me another cold one.

We'll tell stories between the cracks of the burning wood.
Or let the trees blanket us in silence.

Once the sun sets, all we have is
time to waste.

So.
Let's do anything,
but fight.