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I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.
It's hard to understand, unless
you've been there.
There is a pull to the streets.
I can't count how many dead
end jobs I've held—how many roach
infested rooms I've
crashed in.
The inevitable day comes when
I tell the boss, "*******, I don't need this ****! "
I walk out into the misty
afternoon—I look left, then right.
I drowned out thoughts of the future with
a cheap pint of *****.

I see one eye George on my travails,
he's half lit—living in the woods.
"Don't let the ******* get you down." He says, as he
stumbles by bent, and taking a standing eight count.
Mickey the ****** stops me a
block from my flop-house.
"Tommy boy, I'm sick…gotta couple of bucks so
an old drunk can get well? "
I slip him a five.
He says with a tear in his eye,
"God bless you Tommy—you know I
had it all, I'm afraid the
streets own me now."
"Keep your chin up" I say as
I plummet down the
street, pretending
tomorrow is a decade away.

I climb the three flights of
stairs to my room,
slip the key in the lock,
turn the ****—it opens.
"I love these little miracles" I say under
my breadth.
My three legged cat Walter saunters up to
me—he's white with marmalade splotches.
He does his best to rub up against
my leg—I pet his matted fur.

I passed out in an alley one
night, and woke up to Walter lying next to me.
I think something crawled into
my ear and made a home,
it's been there ever since.

I crash down on my chair,
and watch Walter scratch at
the door with his one front leg.
He hasn't been neutered—he gets the
pull of the streets.
I let him out and take a long swig of
the *****—the potion does its magic.
Life doesn't look so bad,
there will be other jobs, and I still have
two weeks left in this
dump of a room.
A writer needs four walls—yet there is
always

the pull of the streets.
  Feb 2 Flatfielder
Max
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
Flatfielder Feb 2
Influence me
So I may be good
(c)near_lane7
Flatfielder Feb 2
Remind me of you
Cause I devour Love
Flatfielder Feb 2
A chance in a moment given
Time of utter importance
The guts to come forward
To grab the extended branch
A quick evaluation
Does mean it's right?

Step back and adjust posture
Deep breath before facts
Flood your thoughts
A river
Water flows faster than chance

To see it float away
Staying behind
A moment in decision making
A new chance will come this way
(c)near_lane7
Flatfielder is near_lane7
Flatfielder Feb 2
Nights are long
You fail to breathe
Stretching your arm
It hurts what's wrong
Must exercise in time
Muscles did dwindle
Lifting and bending
Do you have to.....
Of course
It's never too late
Be again strong
In the morning dew
A whistle a song
(c)near_lane7
Just a self assessment
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