I want to run my hand down your back
And feel your smoothness across the ridges of my fingertips
Once more

The smell of your hair lingers in the spaces between my fingers
The ends of each strand brushing my skin still haunts my forearms

My hips feel like your thighs are still there,
My spine still feels your ankles interlocked,
My tongue still remembers how yours tasted,
My teeth still feel your bottom lip in between

In your voice, I heard the angels of heaven sing;
And in your eyes, I saw its shining gates;
And in your eyes, I saw burning passion;
And in your eyes, I saw true love
My depression comes to my bed and gives me a warm embrace almost every morning
I try to wrestle myself out of its grasp, but it only grabs on tighter
Whispering in my ear, telling me that I don't need to leave
Telling me how useless I'll be if I stood up and tried to do anything
I try to fight but I'm frozen in place, forced to endure its tight hold
(On days that I do have the courage to fight, I fight and fight and fight
But end up giving up and giving in)
About three hours will go by while I wait for it to get sick of me and let go,
Two hours if I'm lucky (I'm usually not)
And when it does get sick of me, (if I'm lucky) it reaches into its pockets and throws a little bit of motivation my way
Then it leaves
And I expect it to happen again the next day
If I'm just as useless as I think I am, tell me
I can't keep parading around like I'm doing something right,
When obviously I'm not

I'm tired of not being helpful.
I am done with not caring.
I try to help and I do care,
But everything I do and everything I say
Dissipate into the air like cigarette smoke

I panic, I worry, I cry, I fear,
But nothing gets done.
Nothing gets done because my heart fills with all these emotions
That I end up screaming without me knowing it
That I end up screaming at everyone else Instead of screaming at God
(Who deserves all the screaming I want to do for making me this way)

If I'm useless
Then I'm useless
No stopping that
I just wish
Someone would tell me the truth
Here lies your poet
Breathing and awake,
But without any signs of life

The deep hours of the night
Are a perfect simulation of oblivion
And the uncomfortable foam mattress
A suitable casket lining for the dead inside

I am a ghost to those who love living
Barely a breath in their lungs
Barely a word in their sentences
But merely a fraction of what I wish to be

Please make me part of it
With open arms and accepting hearts
Why do all of you resent my warmth?
Why make me feel unwelcome?

For now I stay dead, the way you all want me
Because this is all I can do
Break me no more
Because there is nothing of me left
You once told me
That we would rise from the dark
Like a phoenix in its own ashes
And I believed you

You talked about the beauty of the past
Of caves and of their drawings
How the past calls us to use it
A fiery sword to lead us to the light
And I believed you

You showed me that my art could be more
That there should always be meaning
That there should always be soul
And so I gave my art more life
More soul
And I believed in you

Each line you drew
Each black acrylic spiral
Each word you wrote on canvas
Were similar to mine, in a way
The way the words repeated over and over
Were similar to mine
Were similar to mine
Were similar to mine
And I believed in you

Each line you drew
Each black acrylic spiral
Each word you wrote on canvas
Were similar to mine, in a way
But yours were never yours to begin with
They were Basquiat's
They were Basquiat's
They were Basquiat's
And I couldn't believe it

You showed me that my art could be more
That there should always be meaning
That there should always be soul
And so here it is
With more soul than you will ever have
I hate that you made me believe in you

You talked about the beauty of the past
But never talked of the horrors of your own
And now approaches the fiery sword
To strike you down like the demon you are
And I believe you deserve to rot

You once told me
That we would rise from the dark
Like a phoenix in its own ashes
And I believed you
But now I believe that you don't deserve to
Fuck you, Rocky
"Good morning, sir"
He said as I fixed a rainguard
Back unto my car
I froze in place
And he stood in his

I could feel grief in the air
Accompanying this old man
And I stared

"I am a garbage truck driver
My wife died, you see
She used to sweep the street
Around here
Maybe you noticed her
Once or twice"

He shook a crumpled sheet of paper
Filled with bills
Twenties, fifties, and hundreds
And he spoke again

"It's been two weeks
I don't have the money
To bury her"

He said it so casually
His voice was like
A broken record
To him
Probably

But somehow there was still pain

I handed him some money
He bowed
Thanked me
Walked away

And I stood there
Frozen
So what did you do before this?
I asked the driver
"I drove trucks.
Now I drive people to places"
I sat and listened
As the radio melodies faded
And as the beeping
And the woman's voice
From his smartphone
Began to sound like silence

"My father drove trucks
I watched him drive
Day in and day out
I watched him drive so much
That when I was 12
I grabbed the wheel
And did his job for him"

And so we talked
Passing green lights
Stopping at the red ones

Finally,
The car came to a halt
I handed him my money
And told him to drive safely

That's when I realized
Some men are meant for some things
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