My closet,
at one point,
was filled,
with,
band tshirts,
skeletons,
and the reason,
to live.
My bedroom floor,
it was littered,
with mismatched socks,
skinny jeans,
converse,
some to my knees,
and combat boots,
even though,
granddaddy was in the navy,
and visited Nagasaki.
Now I’m a hippie,
that subconsciously,
does the hair flip,
and people,
well,
they think,
I have a twitch.
Still own converse,
but I just don’t know,
how to let go,
of my past,
to tell the truth.
At least now,
I’m the reason,
to live.
My closet,
is spacious,
and it doesn’t,
have a door.
But it’s still full,
of band tshirts,
skeletons,
and the reason,
to live?
I’m on the run.

I like,
the way,
your eyes,
sparkle,
and I,
hang off,
the glitter,
in your words,
that you whisper,
in the air.
Is it the,
symmetry,
maybe the,
calamity?
But I could,
slide off,
commas,
dance under,
apostrophes,
and that’s just,
the beginning.
I’m starting,
to wonder,
if the dots,
to the I’s,
are just,
question marks,
to answers,
I may never,
have.
Can you blow,
smoke rings,
like sentences,
and put me,
together,
somehow?

I went to,
a world made,
of water.
To your average,
everyday human being,
it would have been,
a natural disaster.
But you didn’t,
even have to,
swim,
with the water,
in the houses,
you just lived.
And your feet,
they never,
got wet.

Once upon a time,
there was a rose,
that grew,
on the moon.
One morning,
it was dawn break,
and it was in bloom.
The petals had uncurled,
an aromatic scent lingered out,
and for some reason,
one curious little mind,
woke up much too early,
to find this scent,
in their nose.
Only to find the moon,
in the sky,
bright and full,
and a rose scent,
all around.
Cocking their head,
they just knew,
that this didn’t make sense!
It was morning,
not night,
and why,
oh why,
would the moon,
smell of a bouquet,
of roses,
and not a handful,
of stardust?
This mystery,
must be solved,
they pondered,
but how?
A ladder maybe?
One really, really tall?
Made of twigs,
and branches,
tied together,
hastily?
No,
that’s silly,
it’s just the,
moon.
There can’t be,
a rose,
on there,
but they smell it.
Maybe if they wait,
and stay up,
just a little bit,
too late.
Do you think,
the moon,
might be in,
a lake?
Get a boat,
a couple of paddles,
and you’ll get a whiff of it,
I promise.

Some say,
the glass,
is half empty,
Some say,
the glass,
is half full,
I just say,
it’s broken.
Not expecting,
anything at all.
And isn’t that easy?
There’s no line,
on that imaginary glass,
waiting to be filled,
or emptied.
It’s just,
broken.
No expectations,
at all,
not waiting,
for a,
**** thing.
A broken thing,
can’t be filled,
no matter how hard,
you try,
it just makes,
a mess,
all over.
Almost like,
the thoughts,
in your,
mind.
Just make sure,
it’s not,
made of,
glass.