I often wonder where and who I would be
if I finally chose to abandon my usual methods of coping
would I be doing better?
would I be here at all?

Isn’t it kind of funny how poetry comes easiest to us the closer we are to death. When everything else is a struggle, the words just seem to flow.

Every time someone asks me, “how is your mother?”
I am paralyzed for just a moment
I hesitate, satiate them with a “she’s just fine”
But the reality is I haven’t got a clue
My mother, my best friend, one of the loves of my life
I guess maybe she doesn’t see me the same way
She doesn’t bat an eye when she’s got methadone,
Hennessy,
watered down beer,
xanax,
a man who she thinks will make her happy.. any impulse
She only bats and eye to release the tears as we beg for a “why?”

How have I managed to lose myself so utterly and completely
One day I stopped, and I just looked
but I was no longer there

Even when the apple does fall far from the tree, that doesn’t mean it isn’t bruised on the way down.

eight o’clock breakfasts,
pad down the hall in padded socks
i hear her weeping again
she’s in 7B because she liked the bed against the wall
good morning, here are your meds
they scan my wristband to charge me later
i eat and spend the day talking with strangers
sometimes lying, sometimes not
i fill my head with words on pages to pass the time, yet it only seemed to move slower
i can’t remember what home feels like because I was never able to find one in myself
so here I will rest for now, until it’s time to move on

And if my last words uttered were going to be lies,
this time I will die in silence