Do not lecture me on the present or now

I will spend the rest of my life

Trying to live in the past

I will spend my entire life

Trying to find what I already lost for good

And this will never change

Because the only constant I'm allowed to have

Is to regret wasting what I had

And I will regret wasting this moment writing ****** poetry

And I already do

Because I could have had what I want

If I didn't squander my nights like this

If I didn't waste my days feeling sorry for myself

Maybe I could be who I wanted to be

If I was allowed just more constant

Just please give me one more thing that isn't so changeable

Just one thing

*please...

You are not a part of something greater than yourself

You are in its way

You are not part of the stars and the moon and the planets,

You are not the grassy green fields of July,

You are not the infinite sea,

You are not the finite deserts

You are all you will ever be

And that is small-

Smaller than we can even conceive

You are a ghost

You are a squeak

You are a shadow

You are limited.

Something we will never be

how long will I drown in the blood
from biting my own tongue?

how long will the burn of alcohol  remind me of the lump in my throat

the day I realized
we would not work.

that I would no longer work.

maybe in a parallel universe
it could be called love
to rip out each other's throats
and still want you.
but in this world
it is a rarity

to be both passionate and in love.

i believe that people
are like those sand paintings
that take years to finish
every shape
and
every color
is there for some reason
some accidental reason
or some intentional one
billions of tiny pieces to create one whole
over time the shapes and colors
may change
because they don't seem to fit,
and with all these grains
to deal with it is a slow process
to try
to make the picture right again
sometimes a wind
blows a section off
we then rebuild that section,
but it doesn't look the same
the whole is altered accordingly
we do this perpetually
until we inevitably
run
out
of the sand given to us
by some unseen hourglass
and then we die
and then the sand is swept through centuries into some giant sandbox as the picture slowly blurs
and dissappears,
until the table-top is cleared
and as the children play and dig
and the wind ripples and churns, eventually
we end up
being barely more than billions
of tiny pieces
in an endless
colorful
sandbox