ideas,
rambling about,
a story, a play,
a novel, an essay,
rants and poems alike,
climbing over each other,
an eternal game of
"King of the Mountain"
for which one gets worked on next,
while the others sleep
in separate bedrooms of
this house that has no doors.
nothing escapes,
but lives here forever,
within the walls of a cluttered mind,
a hoarder's paradise of thoughts and expressions,
just waiting to be emptied,
let loose,
explode upon an unsuspecting world
that may or may not be ready for it.

All of the routes have shown up around you and
Your suitcases are packed with
The scent of memories permeating the air.
You've put on your toughest coat and
Nostalgia will not let itself in
But, the more you look around and
the more you listen to the sounds
Being screamed around you
The more clearer it becomes that,
None of the routes are open for you.
None of the routes are open for you.
On the road that passed between escapism and development,
Someone forgot to tell you that
You can't make friends out of open rivers.
No matter how translucent the inlet,
No matter how unfathomable the depth,
No matter how elating the scent,
You can carry the stones before they're cast into the waters,
But,
You will only feel their heaviness,
When you are watching them float away from you.

And I want to tell her that I understand
what it feels like to be fake, insignificant,
and a shadow on the sidewalk of society.

And I want to tell her that I also borrow
the experiences of others --
that I, too, learn feelings
by stopping and staring at personal wreckage,
like a tourist of emotions,
like an inevitable wish of a human being.

stars shine and world spins
and we breathe
and air sweet
and I me
and you you
and blue blue
and red red
and purple purple
we breathe
and see
starshine and worldspins

Hello, Midnight
with your ragged stars
hidden behind clouds

Hello, Midnight
a *****'s salute
to restless thoughts

Hello, Midnight
a girl flashing her skirt
in the red light district

Hello, Midnight
calling with ******* & ket
at people's doors

Hello, Midnight
guarding the silence
in the dim suburbs

Hello, Midnight
whispering poems
to writers & poets

My life has shrunk
to fit the skin
of this small town

to live inside
the microcosm
of it's streets

to tell it's sad tales
of love & loss
& bygone travels

to walk the ways
I've known
since childhood

even the guest
that came last night
is from the street

I lived on
when I went
to college

& who was
also labelled 'mad'
here by the docs

this is a town
like any town
that locks it's dreamers up

& spits them out
to live branded
& afraid of their own shadows

a town
I want to leave
a town that once I loved

Tell me do did Dylan
ask same question
when he still lived :

Is it drink that is
driving me to poetry or
poetry to drink now

It's just the Moon
that isn't there that watches
us and grins on slowly