There you go again
Off into your fantasy land
The only place you feel (un)safe
I can understand

Your pain is so deep
Isn't it though
In its own profound shallowness
I know where you go

The realizing of the realization that makes your own frustration seem worthy of condemnation
Just to abandon all your judgements and lose yourself in creation
All the while adjusting to your own self induced damnation

Hey now, I'm just sayin'

Playing with ideas until they no longer resemble child's play
Then playing roughly
Absolutely
It still does though
And wouldn't you know it
I know that I do

Whoever grew up to be anyone but themselves
Nobody I know worth talking about

Whoever lost their minds just to find their own hell
I know a few who are locked up in cells

Some just get caught up in that wobbly effect
Grown so distraught by the echo
Some just don't know what to do next
But they all know how to let go

"Everyone's dying, but we're doing it faster."

These poems are for posterity (because mind-loss runs in the family.)
I dedicate all this poetry to my progeny, but most importantly,
to the one and only Future Me.
That old guy who's worn out and world-weary.
The one who's losing his memories,
and can't keep track of what he thinks.

These are all for you.

I'll record the lowest lows and highest highs.
Presented for the perusal of his (yours, my) rheumy eyes.
I might embellish at times -
I might even lie.
I just want to be able to look back and realize:
It's been an incredible life.

Not easily noticed,
and often overlooked -
like some obscure quote
from a lesser known book;
hidden in the footnote.

You've found it,
it's yours.
The X and map are just a reminder of what you own.

You could tell it, but you won't.
You could sell it, but you don't,
because you've found it on your own,
and it's hard to find a home.

With deja vu at the head of it,
followed by a longing for coincidence.
Those kids left a trail of mist wherever they went;
chasing the tail-end of everlasting moments.

I know this magic trick where I throw my heart in a hat
then pull out a rabbit.
Only, it's not a rabbit -
it's a snake.
And this is a swamp,
not a stage.
And there are three bite marks on my leg.

If I told you how many hours I've spent alone on my back porch
just smoking and thinking,
you'd probably think I was nuts.
But I'm not crazy.
You could join me if you want,
but I probably won't say much.

It takes guts to hang yourself by your own intestines.

Compound noun

1. Time spent thinking about someone who is not around; whether remembering time shared in the past, or having fantasies of what could happen with them in the future.

2. Time spent reading, listening, or watching the work produced by someone who is dead. Also, time spent having imaginary conversations with someone who is dead.

Examples:
I know he was dead before I was even born, but the ghost time I've spent with Henry David Thoreau makes it feel like we're old friends.

He hardly even knows who she is, but he's spent so much ghost time with her that he thinks he's in love.

There're a series of silhouettes standing still in my backyard.
They are the ghost versions of my former selves.
I stare into their dark.
A number of moments go by,
then all at once -
they come alive.

This one jumps his leg.
That one is falling down.
Gyrating in a pattern that isn't quite clear.
That one lights a cigarette.
This one sips a beer.
Circling as if playing a game of phantom music chairs.
I see one buckling over.
Another lunges out.
A patchwork design of folly and crime -
I can't decide what it's about.

If only I could get a top-down view,
then maybe I could see
the purpose of this pointless motion;
this parade of all that's me.