shall i scream,
or sing a low hum?
read Poe -
or write a poem?  
the clock ticks away -
my fingers go numb;
my eyes wide open;
my voice -

so dumb.

hand trembling inside the pocket;
knuckles scraping against the outseam;
fingertips crawling into the deepest corner;
nails clawing at a ball of thread -
too stubborn for its own good;
wrist hair tugging at a rough patch;
fist holding onto itself;  
palm lines lacking conviction;
fingerprints blaming each other;
nerves adjusting to the pressure:  
pulsations full of dread;  

the pocket stays empty.

a restless jitter;
skin-deep promises, unkept:
no nails left to bite.

a petal wafts through the fields;
as though a cradle for the morning dew
forged by winter’s labour.

the flower remains anonymous.

a glass of bourbon
unspent napkins on the side
the cheque is written

i'm still running, running fast;
i'm running fast... i'm running fast -
this was never meant to last!

These streets
are not just roads;
they hold our stories, and
embedded within them are our
poems

Good men
won't be found here.
Chivalry is long dead.
Here, we sit in shadows and hide
our scars.

Handcuffed
for buying a
flower from a roadside
vendor.  America summed up
right there.

Walking
by me as I
wrestle with my regret,
she laughs - and for a short moment I
too smile