You deserve a poem,
at the very least,
you really ought to have a feast,
with all the people that,
see you,
for you,
you deserve to have sounds from stars,
playing to delight,
till your day has become your night,
you took a chance,
on a broken,
tired rhymed poet,
it's your birthday,
and this is the best I can do,
you deserve a band,
and people to recognize you across the land,
to wish you a special day,
because you have that way,
to make people feel,
like it's their day,
depression and nutella,
socks and underpants,
dances with no end,
you deserve the better,
and never just something,
people feel like that they lend,
coffee with cats,
castles with open mic nights,
you deserve more,
a year ago I would have killed to write this,
a year ago you were just a kid,
behind bars,
or across oceans,
you deserve more,
a year from meow,
I know that you will be even better,
because, **** girl,
like a meteor,
you'll make another big impact,
you deserve more than a poem,
but it's what I can give at the very least,
and all that's left to write,
is,

Happy Birthday.

It's the night,
before another rotation,
things feel right,
unspoken words,
have turned into one way actions,
elusive internet *******,
replaced by the piggle wiggle's,
chainsaw snoring,
the room smells of seroquel, feet,
and the helping of hope,
sticks from a recovery melted poet,
legs of jell-o,
mood of mellow,
dancing twilight in a skyline,
of building and buses,
a year ago he was drunk,
and jail was his entitlement a week,
later,
two years and more,
have evaporated to chemicals and nights that no longer exist,
and lust,
and fair share of unalibitical rust,
the sounds and smells he's,
holding onto this year,
the only hourglass sand bits,
not fallen through, for the feels of fear,
will only disappear,
Birthdays in rehab,
birthdays ad non infinitum,
courtships of programming & meetings,
the poet,
now producing naturally foreign unforced smiles,
better get his sponsor,
to sign his slip.

Being loved,
when no one asked,
is a weird feeling.

Sponsor numbers,
and Ibprophen,
reading,
feeding,
what's for breakfast tomorrow?
Hope with a guilty side,
Chinaski hidden in a,
recovery library,
words to the poet,
a secret vice,
are nostalgic tremors,
a giggle for the unknown,
terminal uniqueness,
and a desk map with no ****,
pray for the piggly wiggly roommate,
the hope overpowers the guilt,
and the coffee makes,
me smile,
a good day,
a better,
turn,
click.

Piggly Wiggly sleeps,
and snores,
behind,
closed doors,
while someone is cleaning a door,
jam,
others are questioning where they are,
a poet,
reads words in a bathroom stall,
someone down the hall,
whisper shouting in another,
stall,
asks, "What's the point to all this?"
rehab in winter,
rehab in fall,
a **** and a smile,
but a reminder,
you get in what you get out,
sixty one days sober,
breaking the record every day,
the poet flushes away,
is internal frown,
complaining companions move onto the windows,
piggly wiggly dreams aboot,
bacon and ****,
another record,
the poet asks his higher power,
please let it last,
one day at a time,
everyone stops,
sloppy joes & cigarettes,
for,
lunch.

I messaged with words that sound written down,
they were,
got a new courage that has been found,
I didnt trail off, but the world lost it's sound,
who knew?
I guess you would had to have if it really made sense,
trying to appreciate his recompense,
It's cloudy and I hear the rhymes,
but that doesnt take care of all the I'm fines,
I hear it and want to hug you,
so wrapping in written syllables,
I try to believe in miracles,
hoping that you can see the prayers coming out of my head,
when you saw my smile instead,
calling me your best friend,
Sending songs you'll forget,
but I bet you'll feel at home,
so I'll send them along with a phone,
full of mysteries that will plague us both.
Don't dare to say you miss me the most,
because I raise my coffee in toast,
that you'll be happy tomorrow,
and at least smile today,
spoken with fiery words in sentences that arent coherent,
So i guess I'll tuck in my shirt to see that smirk,
and remain in adherence,
as my poem fades away,
and I'll sign off with a tackle and a dance,
and thank God again for poetic miles,
and happenstance.

I hope you feel better.

Picturing her is tough,
you'd think it'd be easier,
when I dream of her enough,
she's got brown hair with a past that's a little rough,
I mean relatability,
is on the key ring of comfortability,
a good smile,
and the first to kiss or say "I love you" first every once in a while,
a plus if she can write,
and not feel ashamed to sometimes be the first to apologize after a fight,
she's someone not looking to be found,
healthy and (superficially) not super round,
but can eat quesadilla's and chocolate cake in bed,
who listens,
but also knows what needs to be said,
a girl who giggles & smiles at my cheeesyness,
and says that it's ok that my life is a mess,
she makes love instead of *******,
(sometimes a good **** is what we need though)
Knows how to get me oot of my head,
and is self reliant,
but also has trouble watching me leave,
she'll be fine with dancing/singing/kissing me in the rain,
and know all the right words and moves to drive me insane,
thick hair like a mane,
and doesnt care if I'm poor or have fame,
she'll appreciate my crazy music,
and will take care of me when I'm being a ****** when I'm sick,
who wants kids and that awesomely typical house,
she'll be loving and empathetic,
Loving Bob Dylan and dogs,
shorter than I is a must, and know's how to be the sun in my times of fogs,
adventuring but doesnt mind  a good netflix and chill,
her eye's will be revealing,
with every look my heart she'll be stealing,
smooth sexiness withoot the need to be based on touch and feeling,
kissable lips,
grab worthy hips,
a girl I could laugh with for the rest of my life,
an honest wife.

I'll dream of her with a certain notoriety,
hoping I find her,
after a year of sobriety.

She's waking up, and already in his head,
Lucidly in hers as I go to bed,
a different world apart,
it's cold and her coffee is hot,
it's hot and he cant bring his Polar Pop back,
from the mini mart,
both dancing to obscure tunes of knowledge,
both hanging onto,
but jumping off incredible ledges,
to what?
Whatever everyone seems to have so whatever figured out,
she reveals her smiles through a new different colored pout,
and he hides his smiles in words,
that get jumbled in your jaw,
they can only see what they saw,
in text messages and telephone towers,
as if being worlds apart gave them super powers,
she was dead living,
he was living dead,
worlds apart,
waking and going to bed.