I still think about it on most days...
How I'm okay with how things have turned out for the most part... but there are days when I think back to that one time I said my piece and things haven't really been the same since.

How would I be right now if I never told you what I told you that night seven months ago?

I tend to wonder if you even mean the things you say to me because you know I mean what I say where my feelings for you are concerned.
Is it all mindless flirting? Do you think I'm playing? The things you send to me, how should I take them?

On most days, I think I'm okay; for the most part, I think we're good.
It just eats at me how something tells me you won't stay.

I’ve always been good at navigating. I can find my way in a crowd or a city unknown to me. I no longer get shaky when I think about getting lost. Asking strangers for directions has never been a problem. My legs take me as far as I need to go, and my feet share secrets with the road to bargain with back in the bazaar of my head. We know how to get there. We usually do.  I tried going to my happy place today. Turns out it’s hard to pinpoint on the myriad of maps I’ve been making since I was 4 years old. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what counts anymore. Places I once knew to glow yellow from the inside out have dimmed, and most old memories have the scrap of a taint too sharp to touch still attached to them. I have problems with letting go. I find it hard to forget the same way an elephant keeps count of every word anyone’s ever said. You would think this would be an advantage. Sometimes it isn’t. It is hard to try and write new on a slate that was never wiped clean. I have changed. I am envious of everyone able to close the boxes they’ve packed away. Because the lid on mine never seems to fit properly. It is tiring to be responsible for your own hurt every time you have to hold the door shut to stop the past from lingering. Nails ready to dig into the New you’re doing your best to treasure. I think about the temporary nature of all things. How no one is invincible. No one is ever as perfect as we project.  I am not without my flaws or faults. In fact, they have grown bouquets on my sleeves and have built their own corsages on my wrists for when my heart is too heavy to smile for the camera. I think of the “who” rather than the where. The bubbles I have collected with my breath and held with full air in the hopes they don’t burst. Their rainbow undersides and defiance to my gravity while never floating too far away outside my hazy atmosphere. The happy they have given me to make my own. The happy they radiate during visiting hours. The happy that soaks into the knowledge that I sometimes do the same. I am grateful. Always grateful. I may not have bought my house yet but I can always keep renting the flat where the couch is always cosying up to a comfy I am lucky to accommodate. It still smells like warmth and conversations  yet to come once they leave. Until next time. Let yourself in.

I'm gonna die soon all alone
Livin by myself and in my bones
I know I'm gonna die alone
My voice is stuck in a monotone

My soul has no tone its all gray
A boring voice with nothing to say
My heart can't take work and no play
While I'm growing older every may

Running out the clock, need more time
Losing out cause I need overtime
Just put me in a light that's lime
All this pain, what I let out in rhyme

Blame it on the system
That never helped those within
Blame it on the depression
That furthers a spiritual recession

Blame it on those around me
That ignore, deciding not to see
Blame it on the one at the center
That ignores the cold in winter

The blame rests on my back
The blame rests on all I lack
The blame rests there till I crack
The blame so restless a heart attack

As I fall into an abyss thoughts turn black
Hard fought steps forward just to fall back
The last call back as I step right off the track
Stand tall even as I sink into the depth lost in cracks

Cracks like valleys and in valleys a kindness
Escape from happiness and all that brightness
Lights so painful to my shadowed eyes  
Fights and spite my dark outcries

Lost in the shadow of the valley
The fire of rage snuffed nothing to rally
Acceptance of blame so biased is folly
Is there any blame out there really

The blame dies in my thoughts
The blame dies in my throat
The blame is just a frame caught
Snapped and shuttered shot

Nothing to blame when nothings wrong
Bad break after bad break nothing wrong
Abandoned by those close, nothing wrong
Expectations and high hopes somethings wrong

Assumptions of happiness and fulfillment
Consumption of giddiness and achievement
Got me dying of consumption
Lost in my own assumption

Get ****** over get put down doesn't matter
Bad luck but I still get up and it doesn't matter
Dont deserve any of it not the enemies not the hate it dont matter
Don't deserve any of it not the friends not the love it dont matter

I could die sad and alone completely undeserved
Or surrounded by those closest completely undeserved
I deserve nothing and if I get everything its completely deserved
For all my work to die in a gutter or a home is what I deserve

This is a happy poem.

It exists because I say it does.

You may be asking yourself, ‘But this does not follow the correct syntactical, structural or grammatical elements of formalised poetry. How, therefore, is this a poem?’

To which I would I would reply

This is a poem.

You may also be asking yourself ‘But this ‘poem’ contains no witticisms, no joyful rumination on pre-pubescent anecdotes nor even wistful dreams of improved quality of life. How, therefore, is this happy?’

To which I would reply

This is happy

You may find yourself pondering further on the question, ‘if this is neither a poem, nor is it particularly happy, then for what artistic purpose has this author decided to consciously mislead the respective audiences into believing that this piece of writing would A) be a poem and B) be happy?’

To which I would reply

Huh.

Fair point.

you can't
chart
when the
journey
starts.

it beckons
for a timeless beginning,
and a perpetual ending

this journey, defined
by the creases on my palms
but the callouses i've created, too;

it burns me alive.
      --i beg for an end. i beg for an end i beg for an--

{thus my journey has begun, and my only potential misstep could be sailing the river back home too soon}

i am, therefore i am a to be
but to be what?
to be what, i ask?
i am a to be, and to be a to be means i am a will be
but will be what?
what will i be?
and if i am to be a will be, i will have to have been a won't be
what have i not been if not being?
and if i am both a will be and a won't be, i will have to have been a never be
what will i never be?
what will i never have been?
because i am a will be and am to be a have been
and a haven't been
and a have done
and a haven't done
what have i if not to be and to have been?
i am, therefore i am a to be
what am i but a to be to be forgotten?

My whole body feels weak,
and I can’t help but imagine
this would have been the perfect time
for you to use me,
if you hadn’t already.