I miss the small town girls,
whose names I have
mostly forgotten,
the games of tag,
the make believe scenarios,
the fun we had.

I miss the star lit chats
that the adults had,
while I ran
with flint rock sparks,
and chased fireflies.

I miss the old campground,
where we would swim
in a small sandy pond,
splashing.
When the older folks
dipped in
they got bitten,
but I never felt
any fish nibbling.

These memories
have been dimming
over time,
plus distance
as I swim in
a different
world,

but I was younger then
playing with other children,
innocent.

I miss those moments.

It was a
suicidal game
of self-destruction,
as I walked slowly
on the white winter ground.

Four or more
sleep deprived nights
because of some
drug a doctor prescribed
that nearly fried
my already fragile mind.

For the first time in my life
I decided to give cigarettes a try.
Cancer be ******
because I had already been
******* condemned.
So, I smoked them.

Pushed to the edge,
I punished myself
with cold indifference
popping the last bits
of this sick prescription.

Earlier,
I asked the doctor
if I could take these
before I went to bed.
I guess he didn’t
listen to a word I said.
Was it his ignorance
or merely negligence
that nearly did me in?

On the fourth night,
I watched my best friend
collapse from his asthma
because he was
running to call the cops
to come and save me.

His efforts made me laugh,
as I indifferently considered
just finding a place to hide
while I waited to wither and die.

the riddle must be solved
did you take your life
in those fields?
some say no
the angle of the bullet entry is all wrong
and how did you make it to town with such a wound?
some say yes
when your burden on Theo was made clear
you must tell me
this question ravages my sleep
the recurring nightmare has no end
no answer
was it the cowboy?
why do you cover for such trash?

I sit in a theater
empty
as our souls are empty
our hearts are dark
you created such beauty
for a world such as this
I watch
as 100 painters paint a 1000 pictures
for you
but no answer comes
only the question

and then the words
whether they were truly spoken
does not matter...
'you want to know so much about his death
but what do you know of his life?'

rest in peace
Vincent

what is that college readmissions essay supposed to tell you?

i was depressed, but you don't acknowledge mental health as anything but a lazy made up excuse to not work as hard as the people whose shoulders i stood on did.

"what have you learned, and how will you apply that as a student at our university?"

how do you define growth?

i'm going back to school, and that's what i want to talk about, but i can't help but focus on why i left. i can hear myself and others, battling the war in our heads called "pragmatics vs empathy".

i can't tell who's losing.
i can only tell who's participating in yuppie culture, i can only draft so many letters to my parents, and the congruence of my academic self and every other version of myself.

what does a gap year mean (to my family)? what about two?

i've had this stand alone identity, and it's cost me a lot.

i miss learning.

there are so many barriers, so much omission.
do i only make one-year commitments out of fear for anything longer?

i'm jumping into a lot of different identities, with their own different paths, but we ultimately come back together as one, as me. it's meiosis. only one of them has to eat or sleep. i could keep working and running forever. parts of me are really and only good at that.

how do i fulfill the expectation of living up to what my parents see?
how do i get recognized for "growth" and how do i identify areas for it?

i'm sorry, dad. this was a really long voicemail. i'll talk to you later.

i feel warm and you'd think that'd be comforting,
but the heat makes me sweat and my stomach twists.
the tips of flames strike the edge of the paper,
as i hold it over the flame of a candle.
they darken and curl, retreating from the fire in pain.
ink fades and disintegrates from view.
i watch as my biography burns to ash.
i can't bring myself to shed a single tear.

If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.

You, clipped little fragments
divided and crumbled
as the asymmetrical pinions
of the Winged Samothrace,
I spoke “****** soft spoken”
unedited, fluid, effortless,
aroused by Fortune
and I was christened
within rapture, your creator’s
“poisoned wounds” and “secret pains”
electrifying my heart and mind
inspiring such a preface
such a volatile violet passion
and I am moved by this color
by this flower
by this name
those fragrances still pouring
centuries after decimated
marble, demolished syllables
slaughtered by gender or genius
status or progression

life before the pages being written
is potential

Life in mid-sentence
is a form book

Life after publishing
is homage