someone asked,

“how can you be
so happy,

but still write poetry
like depression
is all you know?”




did it ever occur to you
that maybe

I’m only happy because
I took that depression
out on this paper,

instead of taking it
out on myself?

You are nothing to me.
You are just a figment of my imagination.
You are there and then in a blink of an eye,
gone.
Not much difference than the reality of us.

I am daylight
of a dissolving stay
in Paris
looking over
wrought-iron dreams
peering through
baroque and promises
at the ransom note
written on
a sleeping **** sunbather's
****-cheeks
where it reads:
"...our marriage
was nothing more
than a foxhole to you."
~