Death encumbers me as I peer out from behind my eyes.
I’m not there.
Time drips in an hour glass.
And we care only for what is not in our control.
Our death being the only exception.
It is not thought of at all.
We drink to forget the time that takes us to it.

Your poetry is ****
I say this to myself
Even when it’s for others
I say this to myself when I run out
Of ideas or serotonin
Before I run outside.
I know that’s important.
Serotonin that is,  not running outside ,
Because people smarter than me
Said so

I sat cross legged for some time
‘Time’ That I was told didn’t exist
And eventually I realised
I am not the thoughts in my mind
Because someone smarter than me said so
Yet somehow when I write
Those thoughts on a page
I am those thoughts
And I don’t have time to tell myself
That all poetry is ****.

I light a cigarette I no longer want
To stop my hands from fidgeting
Or holding your hand
Or cupping your breast
Or pushing back
A lock of hair behind your ear
Like in the **** movies you liked
I can smoke now
You’re not around
The novelty ended before the first finished
But I did it anyway
Then another
And another
Now I lose my breath
As I go up the metro steps to Gran Via
To see my mother
Staying at a hotel nicer than any place we had been
We were worse than my parents
And how it looked on the outside
And that was pretty bad.

I could breath for a minute
Before that first cigarette.