I think I’m losing my poetry.
Not in some bleak, calamitous way,
Just – I don’t know how to start anymore.

Is that the problem?
That I’m caught up in my once-upon-a-times
And my dark-and-stormy-nights?
Maybe.

Or. I’m trapped in my metaphors.
Even – I’m tangled in my analogies.
Trying to tap the trees of every experience I’ve ever had and
Bleed them for all their meaning.
Picking up each imperfect seed of memory and desperately
Injecting their cores with GMO/Pesticide/Make this Matter/Juice.

This cyclical little life of mine is whirling too quickly,
My tail is tying knots in my intestines.
I can see the nape of my neck approaching in the distance,
Time taps her toes on my scaled sloping back and tsk-tsks not long now.

I keep on asking her what the countdown is for.
She checks her watch and smiles.

i don't play the game
of what if or maybe
i fall into the day

Many nights ago we chewed over the saddest words we knew:

                                   almost and maybe.


We almost made it work,
   but maybe it's best left at just that.


You were the best almost I  maybe ever had.

How do I stop liking you?
How do I stop talking to you?
How do I stop caring about you?
How do I stop longing for you?
Maybe, just maybe...
I'll learn how to dance on my own.
Maybe, just maybe...
I'll forget about your face and voice.
Maybe, just maybe...
I'll just remember those days when I was happy with you.
Maybe, just maybe...
I'll learn to let you go.

I wanted to see the sunrise.
Instead I laid in bed and watched
as my windows slowly let in
more and more light. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll watch the sunrise. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll crawl out my window. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll take pictures of the sunrise and
it'll be worth it.
I'll always want to see tomorrow
even if I dread every second of today.
I want to see tomorrow
and capture it.