I bought a second book to write between the pages.

Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That nobody else can see.

Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
Sometimes I try to rewrite those words
Late at night untill I tire.

Sometimes my dust cover slips away
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.

I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.

There's a spider
On the window
Above my bed
He doesn't move
And all the angels in the world
Would think this
As an excuse
To not sleep tonight
I roll over
He's not what bothers me tonight
Anxiety keeps me awake
And I wonder if
the spider's sleeping well
Or if
He's as sleepless as I?

What would it be
To live on a wall
To lurk in the corner
Of a tiled room
When I go to have a shower
Why does he run towards the water?
Do I think
his life is
As hard as the people I know?
If he's so desperate
He'll run towards flowing water
Does he want to end it too?

Breathing heavy
Bad dreams
Anxiety keeping me awake
Just to procrastinate
Waking up in the morning

Do spiders have nightmares too?

When I cannot think of what to write,

I read what you already have.

And it makes me angry,

in a helpless sort of way.

We all seem so depressing, gathered here together,

like we're kept here away from everything else.


And I listen to the old songs,

just to see if they still set my chest on fire.

Are we all stuck in a limbo between seconds, trying to move on,

or is that rude,

because it's just me?

We are forever authors till we're not.
We write every constant and every vowel, every verb and every noun, every tick and every tock.
Every moment of every day to the second.
A self published autobiographical series entitled anticipation.
Some chapters are longer than others.
Some filled with triumph and perseverance while others may be drowning in disappointment but no matter what happens we write.
Footnotes at the bottom of every page pushing into the next; formulating the action on the next page even the next chapter.
The only problem is, we don't know what we're writing. It'd be easy if our actions alone fueled every moment and decision in our lives but that's not the case. Rarely do we forge history.
For the most part, we react to it.
We can only reflect on what was written after the ink dries on the page; hoping that we live long enough to author our own endings.
Hoping that someone would read our books and see them as inspiration instead of a cautionary tale. Praying we at least get to finish.
You don't want to be the one whose....

Street lights shift in tandem,
Flickering rhythmically
Sputtering small halos of safety

Bleached, cracking pavement
devoid of fellow travelers,
and subsequent passengers

I devour dotted lines,
The speed of light
no longer constant.

I allow heavy lids to fall
without much hesitation.
Feel the road sway beneath

I above, disconnected,
yet grounded still. Oil atop water;
Disharmonious cohabitants

Consistency is lost. I pretend
time moves as I please
With or without me

I begin to count


One
Testing preservation,
Instinctual construction of survival.

Two
How long can I trust
touch to keep the course

Three
Can distance be anticipated
without visual stimuli?

Four
I feel the whir of the engine,
obediently churning

Five
hear the wind whipping
defying my wish for silence
slipping through the back window

Six
This is bliss.
I swim envisioned oblivion

Seven
I should open my eyes

Eight
Reality in motion -
time makes me queasy.

Nine
Sight returns.

I stop counting.
Safe, trundling on
I slide silently down 48.

December 12, 2016

My soul is awashed
Not by the light of the moon
*But by the darkness

A quiet night, such as this,
reminds me how to believe.

The rain taps at my window,
and I feel the Earth  b r e a t h e.

I'm glad he left me
in a Window by the Sea
See I had forgotten
to Be
Truer to Myself than he.

And now, drowning in misery,
I never seem to feel happy.
So it's a relief to stare pensively
Through this Window by the Sea,
and observe how mesmerizing
and brighter my reflection is,
Without He who stood beside Me.

Some days I wish
That I was the only seed wrought by my parents
Honestly I wonder what it would be like
To not have my older sibs

To not have to be compared to my older brothers,
Or not to be messed with and harassed at times by my sister.

I'd probably have that pair of roller skates that I'm after
I had to get at least I've joke out, forgive me master!

Somedays I wish I could take control of my life like the Sims
And see what it'd be like without my sibs

When my ex took her life,
we were both newly single.
I was out of state,
she was out of mind,
and no one thought to tell me,
because, frankly, she had already
pushed everyone away years before.
We reconnected, while she was
seeing someone, who was taking
advantage of her, as she would later
come to explain. So when I drove
to her parent's home to pick her up
she was apprehensive, but only
because that's what she had been
used to, abused too.

We sat across from each other.
She told me how the last five years
have been long, and she missed me.
I told her it was mutual, but that
might have been a lie. My mind was occupied, hers too, but by voices that
weren't her conscience.

She told me how she
hasn't had sober *** in
a very long time. She told me
that she was a slob. She told
me she had two bottles of beer in
her bag. I had a bottle of whiskey.

We drank, and talked,
and kissed, and ******.
And woke up to each
other the next morning.
I pour her a cup of coffee
before driving her home.
And after the car ride I
Told her I would talk to her
later, and I did.

Then we ended our relationship.
And I told her I would talk to her
soon, and I planned on it, but she
beat me to the punch, and knocked
all the air from my lungs.