Are we junk?  Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”

Our awkward secrets
stumble
cislunar.

My naivety died with my father
at the bottom of Lake Shelbyville
when I was seven years old
and still losing little teeth.
-
I turn twenty-four next week;
January the fifteenth.
I can still sense the difference between you and I
by the long pauses in between weather talks.
-
I find solace in solitude
and that will never change.
Too many years of misunderstandings,
dope addled family, and conflict avoidance.
-
My mother has an addictive personality
which she tries to superimpose onto me
as a way to keep me away from the ****.
She wants me to be her negative film; her opposite.
-
I wish my grandma had leveled with her
instead of surrounding drugs with the mystique
and the danger of a loaded weapon
in a teenager's back pocket; denim daredevil.
-
Grandma.
Now that is a name I miss saying.
She was the stern force that matured me
and my protector in time of matriarchal absence.
-
Her mind started to die years before her body did
and I had to sit and watch it happen, helpless,
with my mother; her daughter.
Alzheimer's, falls, strokes, and in a flash she wasn't there.
-
I don't find myself rooting for the cause these days.
I just want to escape where I came from;
who I am, but the path is circular.
I'm accepting the fate, bathing in lust, and waiting for summer.

i like how you look at me.
not with hunger, but with adoration.
we pretend that we can't see,
and neither of us give an invitation.

so we joke and hug;
neither giving a sign of weakness.
being friends; we're warm and snug
with innocent sweetness.

I watch and
On a star light night
For a falling Star
As a confirmation
That an ambition
Will prove to be positive

If I see one
My confidence
Is improved
Yet I still know it is a wish
That I make as it falls
Not an action

After all it
Could be space junk falling
Or the fragments’ of a jet airliner shot down
Kind takes the fun right out of it
Wishing on
A shooting star