i see the flyer at starbucks

"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"

wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, ****-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****"
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?

She untangles
from around
me,

like a
ball of
cheap

drunken

yarn.

then finds
her way
down our
bedroom
stairs.

upon reaching
the bottom

she throws
away a
glance

in my
general
direction.


much like
a person
waiting on

a bench
for a bus

would do,


when they
see a

car go by

then realize,


there is
no one

in it that
they really
know
or care
about.


it is just

a courtesy


"I think I

might know

you nod."


no need for

I love you's

this morning.


good-bye will

suffice.


and this
evening

when the
bus comes

to bring
her back..


It will
find me
waiting,


like a

wooden

drugs store

indian

at the
bottom

of the
stairs

eager to

meet her
there.

every day

right on

time.


it is not

so much
a game

we play,


as it

it has
become
instead.

a almost

lifeless

existence a


scare crows

ritual we
act..


biding time.
every morning
we awake.


sleep walking

love through

our day.

never
realizing,


we never
had anywhere
to go

to begin

with.

I'm here sitting
alone,
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
desperate,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
or
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
or
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.

Roses want blood,
delicacy, and
grace.

Flowers want life,
Love, and
care.

Doomed are those
who treat their roses
as if flowers
bleeding
until drought

Long live those
who treat their flowers
as if roses
giving
until downpour