Lost soul,
Where are you going?
You walk on a path
A path to nowhere.
Your head is aimed low
With your hopes even lower.
You can't look up
In fear of what might be there.
So you just hold back
And look down.
Down down down
Where your crushed dreams lay.
So again I ask,
Lost soul,
Where are you going?

The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.

The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.

The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.

The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.

I feel like
I'm on top of the world
Until i realize
the world is on top of me

9 hours.
It's a long time to spend
in an airport.
I wore the wrong shoes
and my feet hurt
with every step I took.
But then I saw the tears
and then her story came pouring out
at me with them.
Dad passed,
mom barely hanging on,
flight delayed,
Sister ill,
daughter going deaf...
And my feet hurt
on my 9 hour layover
to Europe...

It's late at night, he's drunk again
******* on a cigarette,  writing about where he's been.
He sits as his usual table, in the middle of the room.
An old wooden table, his mothers mothers friend bought at a flea market, times ago.
There are words and scratches covering it's every inch.
Imprinted, from his nightly thinking.
So everynight, once he dumps his overfilled ash tray and cleans the clutter of loose papers, he can see all the memories he once wrote.
Memories,  not good or bad.
Just reminders of what thought each evening in past has brought.
Half words, half sentences,  words over words.
Complete mess, just as his life.
Not even a full sentence, as are his daily thoughts.
Broken sentences written.
Broken sentences spoke.
Broken sentences - read.
Double words over one another.
Slurred speech,
Stumbles in speech.
His thoughts lost in time.
As he reads all his lines.
Telling the same story over,
Every time.
He cracks open his nightly companion, sets his reheated pizza on the table.
Putting out his smoke and scratching his head.
Guzzlers his lagar,  before he turns in.
The morning has awoke,
Hours later, he would follow.
Stumbling to his table, spilling coffee over the scattered nights work.
Looking at all the damage the night has done.
He scratches his head, as he puts out his **** on the floor.
Exhales while laughing at the papers.
"Looks like you need it more then I do today!"
He began to walk away, finding some suds with a floating ****.
Then proceeds to drink his last sip from the earlier night.
"I'm going back to bed." He says, The coffee gets me sick anyway.

My old self keep dying everyday
To keep tryst with new beginning
Young heart beating with vigor
Every vein filled with brimming hope
Charting new territories
Being better than my old persona
Inception of fresh perspective
Every cosmic particle in me enthused
After fresh lease of life

You call me your princess,
     but I'm not worthy of a title
     filled with such nobility.
I'm far from regal, you see,
     and I wish you wouldn't give
     me so much to live up to.
For I'm destined only to disappoint
     when you hold hopes so high.
I'm nothing more than a child
     playing dress-up
     in her grandmother's old clothes,
     pretending to be royalty.
What you think you see,
     is nothing more
     than make-believe

My wine had spilled across the table
that day.
A cheap Chiante, the bottle rolled off
the table.
Causing a castatrophic scene on my
hard wood floor.
Cheap laminet, the glass lye on it's
side, on my glass table like a gun shot
victim.
Bleeding it's last ounce of sweet nectar
across it's ground.
I lit a smoke, leaving it on the middle
of the table.
Not in a ashtray and just rolling on the
only dry spot of my uneven table.
I took a black and white photo of the
spill.
Photo shopped it all night long and
proceeded to make a really cool picture.
I'm thinking of having it framed, for
you.
But then also know how much it would
be.
That's alot of dough for a cheap ***
spill of wine.
And perhaps way to much thought I
have, or way to much time.