let's have our midnight coffee
spike it a bit
smokin' a cigarette
and just keep hopin' life's gunna take us somewhere
but let's not waste the cab fare
we all know we're going nowhere

if i'll ever be lost
would you see me
the way
you see
the sunset?
if i'll ever be lost
would you feel it
the way
you feel
the wind through your skin?
if i'll ever be lost*
how would you know
i'm lost
when i'm
too invisible for you
to know.
Am i a ghost?

(g.s.b.)

A solitary place
in the middle of nowhere.
Great distance from perfection.
The horrible look is incomparable.
Covered with dirt;
no marks of hope.
The shadow of dark
surrounds every part of it.
Abandoned
Hopeless
now unknown
deserved to be gone.
Then a man came,
from a paradise.
The place awaiting to be destroyed
given a dot of hope.
Pleased
Optimistic
and for some reason
the man stayed.
Alone for years,
the man removed every single dirt.
From irrecovable
it turned into something
abrupt.
It can be "something"
from nowhere.
Unforseen
A day approached
the man said goodbye.
Away
the place still looked beautiful.
But
it has no value.
Empty
Unworthy
The changes are insignificant.
Certainly it needed more than
how it looked.
Even so, its new beauty
without the man
remained
a solitary place.

*-Steph Dionisio, July 13, 2015

Everyday's the same, same old crap, same old wonder
New day is dawning, morning bright, a day to plunder
Welcome to the real world, one away from heady dreams
Yet still ripe with stargaze and colour and off-of-table schemes
You wake up in the moment, taking it as prescribed
Leaving buried things buried, you keep it all inside.

Visiting "Chez Louis", tossing back Main Street
Who's putting on who, who's missing the beat
Pair of size 10 sneakers, rubber soles, red and white
No sweater, no hat, the sun is raging bright
You take a trip to nowhere, not so very far
And marvel at the marvel, of feeling like a star.

They call you a lost wonder, you call 'em all first rate
Leave it all to karma and destiny and fickle, fickle fate
Don't start your **** again, just leave and keep on truckin'
You've other strands of life that you'll want to get to pluckin'
Living, it's called, a right serious sore temptation
To shed false airs and try for new sensation.

Nothing
looks familiar
anymore and
I want to go home
but nowhere
feels like
it anymore.

When bluffs
get boring
I trade them
for fields.

When two
lakes aren’t enough
I leave for
a forest of them.

Maybe it’s true
that home isn’t
a place but
a feeling.

Maybe
home
is me.

But
what if
home isn’t
a feeling,
but a person.

Maybe
home
is You.

For now
I’ll have to
carry all that
makes a home
in my bones
until I find
someone I can
unpack into