I loiter
between
what was
and
what will be.
Overlooking
what is.

embrace my past
to accept my present
such a choice

am i the only stalking other people's lives?
checking their whereabouts, current engagement - basically their life now
am i the only one restricting myself from doing so but only ending up from clicking that **** account.
that **** photo.
that **** profile.
why am i so curious about their lives to the point that i always have that tiny split of moment where i think nothing but just them?
am i envious? i don't know.
am i wishing them bad? ofcourse not.
am i somehow comparing myself? i guess? i think so?
you see, it's a look in the past that's still passed on to present.
and right now.
but now.
remember this time, september 11, at this **** moment - eveything's erased in my system.
nothing but only for my growth, well-being. basically all about me.

and to those reading this right now, we got this. once out of your sight, it'll be out of your mind.

focus on oneself. focus on your own life. focus on your dreams as you always did. don't even blink an eye.

Words written into a letter
that I know you won't read
messages left unread
and I can't help but wonder if you've already left
Questions that become drawings upon my skin
the ink already stinging, drying
I've become the target in my mind, a thing to hit
Striking home, staying at home crying
Holding myself because you're so far away
but still I know you like a stranger, no matter what you say
Closer than I'd let,
closer than i'd imagined
just one year becomes life
and I have to let you go
I wonder what's holding you back
Is it all of the stories, to take you away from this world
Evil, evil world, with it's shadows
convincing you not to eat, less you get sick and hurl
yourself into oblivion, to not be awake
One last thing before you take

I want to go home, but I'm not sure where that belongs
In my heart, in their eyes, or perhaps no where at all
If only could I lay among the soft fabric of silence
Numbed by any sense of static, some sense of peace
If only could I find that small trace of sanity left inside these walls
But it's time to go "home."

Someday,
these words I write I’ll eventually say.
That old guitar I might remember to play.
My dreams will find a way,
when there’s hope for someday.

And next year,
I might find I’ve lost another fear,
but along with loss gained another tear.
The words I write you might never hear.

Why I still get up and try,
I can’t lie, I don’t truly know.
But I will myself to rise,
dry my eyes and give it a go.

Tomorrow
I may create a smile from my sorrow,
while living on the time that I borrow;
goes by so fast but feels so slow.

Why I get up and try,
I can’t lie, I don’t truly know.
Because I have yet to die
make a name for I and will it so.

Someday,
these words I write I’ll eventually say.
Create colours in this world of grey,
do my best to make them stay
if there is still hope for someday.

I'm living in meantimes

in a checkout queue or a lobby
at the hairdresser and the laundry
and when I take ***-bits and pastry

I'm living in meantime

when it's quiet in the train
when it's cloudy under the plane
and while I'm singing a refrain

when I'm at a stop in suburbia
take shelter and wait under a pergola
or pass over a few turns

when visitors are not coming
when it is silent after a greeting
and after excuses for early leaving

when friends whine about communication
repeat their stories with every consideration
for a lack of interest in a real conversation

In that meantime, the quotidian
breaks in between the action
I realize that I am alive

did you find what you were looking for?
you dug yourself pretty deep
panning for gold
reaching for a lost world
but all that's left for you now
is to lay in your fresh tomb

I am from a loneliness
That I no longer claim.
I am from a gift of God—
Call it luck if you want, the kind
Of luck that saves, and ever since that
Ripe-old age of one I say
I am from Colorado.

I am from a father that couldn’t stay.
I am from a mother who couldn’t.
But they are not important.
To miss them, they’d have to be real to me,
Not Goldilocks, not Cinderella, not Little Red Riding Hood—
Not a fairy tale.

No, the important part is this:
I am from two parents who went through hell and
Prayed to God that they could do better, and did.
I am from two parents who did their best,
But their best was not always good enough.
I am from two parents with worn-down, stomped-on hearts
And still they kept on beating.
And still they kept on beating.

Everything came down to this—
Everything came down to me.
But I am not a Lego flower built of blocks,
Generations of too-bright, too-wide, too-tight smiles
Meanwhile both hands in a bear trap.
No, I am a flower grown up from the dirt.
I am the blood rushing through me every time I put
Pen to paper.
I am stubborn softness, smart and stupid, everything and nothing.
I am what I longed to be and what I feared becoming.
I am an ocean, the deep blue fading to dark.
I am an open book written in code.

But I hope one day, dear God, I hope
That one day I’ll be brave.
One day I’ll stand on solid ground
And find a hill worth dying on.
I want a home with a willow tree,
A house built in the branches.
I want two kids to chase around, walls
Filled with laughter and messes and warmth.
And God, I want to hear my footsteps
On the floor of a courthouse, briefcase in hand.
I want to be something, I want to be someone
And heaven knows that is what I will be.

A mind like a mess, just a tangle of thoughts,
I am everything that I ever loved, lived, and lost.