You have a cute southern drawl
she said.

You are not brilliant but I like your ***
was the best  I could offer.

You from Mississippi?
No, southern Iowa.

Not much difference in men
all weighed and measured;

this, we both
understood.

Unclasp your fingers
Your clenched fists
And know the release of
Giving in

Let him drift away
Let the ocean stand between you
As a testament
To the vast expanse
That exists there now.

Stop fighting the waves.
Stop braving the icy waters
Arm over arm
To reach him on the other side.

The water will always win.
And you never were much of a swimmer.
He's just a distant island now
Shrouded in fog
Somewhere over the horizon.

Rest now,
The fight is over.
Your mangled, frantic heart
Can slow
And begin another tempo
When it's no longer bleeding over
An unreachable coastline.

The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

Putting words together is a devolution of self;

the soft underwash of sea darkens sand,
a faded sun burns out over rooftops of rain,
a snow train stops in frost under polar stars;

but this is beyond me, over the edge.

I cant tell a lie, not as well as some. Regardless of what words come out, my eyes will be rather lazy when it comes to hiding distress.
What impresses me is jest, you still have not noticed, and for that i owe you. I'll mark the debt in my little check book inside my head, jot it down like the others, put it aside and pretend it tended forth some tangible result.

Now all is overflowing, the pages ripping and crimped. Used up like the excuses we made to sway away rependence, but the only sorries given are the ones saved for ourselves. Poor modern-generation children, they really let us off the hook. Tucked us in to sleep soundly in feather down little beds resting our little heads, crying over little spits we regretfully didn't have the guts to spat. All told to hush up and pretend, fall to slumber and sleep and forget. Refrain,
You'll wake up to morning rain and tell your lies all over again.

The common desire to define ourselves is defeaning and my ears are ringing. I'm searching for the foundation of the sound, the definite core where I grow from the ground. I have the power to water my basis but instead I let the impression of myself through anothers biases dry up and dust away. I'm kicking rocks below my barefeet, hoping that when I spread and share my air the opinions of who surrounds me wont pollute it to the degree where I can no longer breathe. And now im rocking back and forth in this creeking wooden chair, the roots of relative minds rested below me reminding me what was once there and whether or not something tangible will result when the inevitabilities of life chop me down and leave me bare.
So I guess until tomorrow, or a week, a month, a year, I'll disintegrate into the soil before any of my peers and it won't hurt so bad to be left alone when I know their roots above still continue to fully grow.