It could be
the nights he'd touch you
in between hotel sheets,
The way he'd
hold your hand while
walking down vacant
town streets.
It could be
the way he'd smoke your
cigarette and get
ash in your eye,
The way it felt
to kiss when we
were so high.
It could be
the nervous glance
from across a packed room,
The way you'd
prefer your stance
in the hazy gloom.
It could be
the introduction
on a starry night,
but you already recognized
him from the corner
of your eye sight.
Was he just looking too?
Why does it matter?
You already have someone,
And it's not like you're one
to look all that flattering.
Catching up and
******* up.
Why is life but a mystery?
Spending life only
filled with newly
acknowledged history.

A downtown
queen,
She finds solace in being
seen.
The loneliest of
birds,
she doesn't like it when
these feelings are
stird.
Would it have helped
if I had more
beauty?
Four foot something,
but I don't like myself
with dark hair.
Would it have helped
to have been a little more,
or a whole lot more,
trusting?
I'm sorry,
I know it's a continues
recycling of things that
didn't, doesn't, and
never will matter.
But memories, ideas
and impossible dreams
like to come back as waves
in the form of
dark blue scatter.

the cuts on my hands
have now become white scars
and I think that says a lot
about how I'm doing

the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.

how easy was it
to walk away?
did you walk out
with your heavy heart
weighing you down
or did you run out
skipping?
why did you
have to go?
why did you think
the only option left
was to simply
pack you bags
and leave?
it hurts.
it hurts a lot
knowing
that you gave up on me.
gave up on us.
i don't think
i have cried
so many tears
in my sixteen years
of existence.
but if you came back
i would welcome you in
with open arms.
we can start new.
i can refill your heart
with the love
you lost when you
walked out.
but answer me
one thing:
how easy was it
to walk away
mom?

I tap my index finger on the top of my cigarette,
The pier of ash that was building topples off the end.
The can is at my lips,
A pleasant burn on the throat when swallowed,
Imperial stout,
The warming burn reminds me of good bourbon.
The ***** beer agreeing with my palate.
A hard day started early,
My early ending is it's own reward,
To relax,
Kick back
And let the tunes carry me away.