Being a poet
is both a pain and a privilege.

All you do is
bleed your emotions
on a thousand pages
while people sing your praises
for ages.

I sip on my green tea
wishing for it to cleanse me.
Wishing for it, to cleanse out the oils and the misery I consume.
Wishing for it to break down my toxins.
Wishing for it ... to cleanse the sections of myself that even I cannot reach.

Green Tea

A substance that supposedly detoxes the belly, but not strong enough to detox the soul

Not strong enough to take away my shadows, my doubt, my ego or my woes.
A drink, not strong enough to hug my spirit at its loneliest hours.
Yet, I sip
.. praying the wet herbs that tickle my tongue shall unlock the gateway, or the path, or the door... to my soul.

So I sip...
And sip...
And sip...

Swallowing it’s brew...and my tears.

I'm sorry it's dramatized
because I am a poet
I'm sorry if I
bleed out my eyes
because I am a poet
I'm sorry if I
see winter in the summer sky
because I am a poet

“Remember our cigarettes & the oil rigs. City lights, and drunken nights.
Remember the scabbed lips and 1:00am road trips. Races and white long sleeves.  Christmas Eve burn outs, empty parking lot makouts. Piggy back rides, and best friends forever. Remember the kissing and love making. Shirtless & in love, punches in the face, followed with forgiveness. Unfairness and regret. How I see you and seem not to forget.“