Any time my heart wants to text you
my brain knows to put the phone down  
nothing good ever comes from a “hey…”
we talk twice a year
once on my birthday and once on yours
that should be enough
but there are days when it doesn’t feel like enough
my brain and my heart spit knives at each other
arguing over who is right
should we text him
should we wait until next year
my heart starts typing out “it’s been a while”
and I immediately turn my phone off
its been 7 years, he’s over it
no one keeps feelings that long
“except for me”
we’re adults now, maybe things would be diff—
“I can’t afford to think that way”
thoughts like those cause nothing but stress and a pain in my chest
we can wait 11 more months
and we will have this internal dialogue 11 more times
and I will always wonder what might happen
if I actually press send
“I guess we’ll never know”
regardless
I’ll see you April 2nd

To touch base, I've mixed with bass,
treble; or tremble at the highest volume,
audiotapes left in the closet, those love
confessions in secret; titled into a mixtape,
Or was it a mistake to place myself in the
music I tried to write?

The lyrics are just me ranting away,
in the thinking of finding a way.
I feel a little blue today; in a jazz of a saxophone,
ordering snacks on my phone. It feels too easy to
rhyme. To play with my words. CD discs,
I was scratched by love; in the ignorance of bliss.

Sad playlists saved in good question,
earphones stuck in my ears while I'm still asleep.
Good reason for me to seem so restless,
bluetooth speaker; hoping to successfully connect.
Still pairing to an unpaired match I could bet.

But music is always emotion, just in beat,
catchy hooks, melodies, and shuffling your feet.
To get you off your feet, get you to think, and as
my dad would say, "your favourite songs gets your *** lit"

I can't function without my music.

A girl I dated once called me an "emotionless robot." Yesterday I woke up screaming, last night I fell asleep while crying... Guess she was wrong.

Fingers freezing.
Paint on a smile for passer-bys.
Keep my feet moving down the street
to PJ's for coffee,
for my daily "Good Morning."

Someone told me a song I played was "sad,"
I told them it was the happiest one I had.

The little market store on St. Louis is letting me stock the cooler again this afternoon.
So, I'll be able to buy another drink tonight.

The mornings are stiff,
and the late night shivers with cold.
1987 is the code to find the restroom.
Coffee warms my disposition.

Words stay trapped in my pen,
I start writing sometimes,
and don't know how to end.

... (i'm sorry)

To the middle school English teachers
that simplified Shakespearean plays to the last syllable, feeling like the same dagger of odd epiphanies.

The distinct powdery paint stained floors, acrylic smudged tables and the coffee aroma by 09:03.
An art class educated by a poetic tongue, flicking through all art movements like he existed eloquently in each.

Our engineering & graphics teacher who simultaneously mothered us as her own from the isolated section of block D. In the background, a blackboard with  meticulously drawn site plans of the highest precision. Her shouts were just as sharp.

To my spontaneous IT teachers that taught me how to maneuver through binary dilemmas and store any distress in random access memory.

Or to the person who found my wallet with my ID and bank cards but had no idea where my cash disappeared to.

The aloof B15 bus driver constantly arriving before the last bell, especially on rainy pastel gray days.

The far too kind Mrs Sharon. I've never met you personally. However, your positive impact on my grandparent's life rolled both from their tongues and into my life.

Thank you.

I can't cure each word
Soak them in sorted light
Wait patiently for them to take flight
Some burst out too soon
Like runaway balloons
Those are the best words to write