That song.
I'm trying so hard to get over you;
your words, your actions, your problems- why are they mine?

No, I'm not talking about a lover.
He is better than ever.

I'm talking about a friend.

One of my cohorts in crime,
my partnering master of disaster,
my worldwide favorite *******.

What exactly are you doing?

Why won't you tell me
what's compelling you to pick up
that gold crown
and drown
whatever is
ailing you?

Why don't you trust me enough to tell me?

They say poetry is a rhyme,
something that comes from long bouts of time,
that its' beats have to match
with nary a patch
and it it always sounds sublime.

But why are my poems sessions
of the beats of my heart
translated into pitter patters
from the keys of
my little old laptop?

I don't know.

Why don't you tell me
Once you've sobered up enough
that the words on this page
don't go flying off
into the depths of
a rainbow colored
outer space.

Iris.

Only song that can calm me down.

You;
Gold Crown.

Iris;
Me.

Vices......