My poems are not me
My poems are not how I feel
My poems are just a simple constellation of words that my brain created, and my fingers wrote down for the reading pleasure of others
I'm fine

25...
When you were a kid you thought that you would be married by now
Have it all figured out
The career
The home
The car
The kids
Now you're here and *******...
Do we ever really figure it out?
Adulting is hard
Your Facebook feed is filling up with engagements and baby announcements
but your reading the newsfeed in the liquor isle of Safeway
Beer or wine tonight? Hmm maybe *****?
"Psh who wants to be a boring married couple"
That's what you think to yourself
Trying to convince yourself that it's okay
Drown out that little voice in your head saying "you're gonna be alone forever"
It's like walking on a tightrope
One side you have it together and the other side you still might as well be that 21 year old college student ordering shots at the bar
If someone has this figured out- hit a homie up
Until then, I'm just doing me and I guess I'm doing fine

A burning sensation is building up in my chest
I feel my heart burning as it pumps as fast as the fastest train.
My body is ready to blow and make the night glow.
This is an illness I acquired ten years ago,
I went to see the smartest doctors and not even them can let it go.
As time pass  this feeling is somehow disappearing
or so I think
When I saw you in another woman's arms, when I see you go
I feel my soul being burn in the pit of hell,
My body ready to die and my mind realize.
You are the poison which caused my illness
But you're also my cure.

Wednesday 18th:
Should I be working?
University at 25 seems
so redundant when I stare
at the soft skinned babes,
who skirt the car park
in drunken bliss.

Should I quit?
Get a job? Maybe retail or
office work.
Some say I could seek stability
between the pages of spreadsheets,
sipping coffee with Susan on the
9-5.

Should I marry?
Set a date? They're all engaged.
Stones glaring back at me
like Polydectes eyes
from Facebook pages.
25 is the 'right age',
or so I've been told.

Should I?
I suppose I could.
Maybe I should. Or I could
perhaps
just do something else.

25 daydreams and nightmares i've lived
25 trees i climbed and fell from
25 poems i wrote and then destroyed
25 cherries i stole from Death's lips
25 times i danced in rain trying to forget the pain
25 hopes i found and hopes i lost
25 cigarettes i smoked until suffocation
i died a little more  25 times.

25 years seem sometimes like they went in a blink;
sometimes like it's been an eternity.

i'm looking in the mirror trying to find
a sign of peace
a trace of light
but i can only see
the ugliness building up
the heavy rain in my eyes
the craks in my skin
the 25 wringles life has put all over my face,

25 years and i feel too old, too tired, too weak
to destroy
these 25 walls
i've built
around
myself.

The thunderous rumbling of a busted exhaust pipe disturbs another Gamecube binge on a rainy autumn night.
Is she ever gonna get that fixed? Makes that Altima sound like a 1930’s car.
I  know too well by now the tapping of the steps coming up the stairs. Rushed and soft, just like her knocking on my door.
11:00 pm. “Just got off work” –says she. Like any other night in which she  came to only 'chat', we end up naked on the carpet, I’m on top of her, my hands laying siege on hers, holding tightly, thrusting wildly.
We wear each other out like teenagers in heat; I want another round.
Stamina depletion: complete.  
I ask her to stay the night. I wanna sleep by her side, her body next to mine. I wanna hear the little sounds of her breathing, feel that she is mine.  Like any other night in which she  came to only 'chat', she replies: "Someone is waiting for me”.