A broken past molds us into what we call our present mask
and all that lingers and basks,
either feeding positive tasks or manifesting a present past
(It makes no sense, don't ask)

Attraction is distraction
Unsolvable fractions
Needing emotional extraction

Mind dribble dance
Lost in a trance, never had a chance
So used to subliminally bursting
Not used to someone witnessing me recoloring

I curl inside
I wish to hide
I crave apathy
I refuse apathy
I boycott spoon-fed darkness
But sometimes it swallows you whole
I understand the anger of an earth angel
I understand the haunting isolation when you realize you're the last of your kind

When life meets despair, inhale that coastline air
It's better to painfully breathe than apathetically impair

~ the calm after a heart wave crashes ~

The moon rises,
In time with a sunken ship
Out of the depths,
For its nightly voyage.

As this titanic vessel
Stirs the tranquil waters of the dark,
The crescent above guards it
From the inevitable light to come.

And as time spirals back to day
The sun lurks unto the sea,
Recoloring the waves
From the night's black to day's blue-green,

The celestial orb of night
Slows its chase of the boat
Whose nighttime travel
Quiets to drop anchor,

Forever blanketed
By sundown.
Forever led by the moon.

days go by
like drunk children in their
mothers womb.
I’m fishing in a pond
filled with nothing but alcohol.
It feels good
but I haven’t found any fishies yet.

I guess this is what
transitioning to your 20s feels like:
three weeks of settling into your new place,
thinking you have quite a few opportunities ahead of you
and then settling into your slightly bigger than before bed
only to stay there for hours upon hours a day
scrolling through nothing on the computer
hoping for more to come your way.

I’m trying to eat like a poor person
but I’m only poor in spirit,
financially i’m fat as a double sized donkey.
I’ve got a big ***
but it’s a nice ***
but i still wear
baggy jeans
and all black
to hide my
assets.

I wonder if i’ll look back on this transition period
with regrets.
The days fluctuate
some are
time so well spent.
Others are
just as dry as paint,
the stuff of art
but probably just as useless
as recoloring a picket fence.

I left 2 months ago.
October 7.
It was late.
I wore boots.
I had 23 glasses of water.
Rid the tears, tiny blue tears.
Swallow.

I went with the women who wear their hair back with pins
and drink wine with dinner.
Bed time 8pm.
Prayer 6am.
Soul searching for big answers.

I was sent on a job by a note in the mail,
delivered to secret agent M.
It was a take down.
It took 14 days.

I was driven home late last night
by a man who spoke poor English and lousier Spanish.
I chipped off the pink and plan on recoloring tomorrow.
The next question, what color.

I circle in dark red the ad in the local.
"Hiring Spies."

I start again....

  but this time with a new name.

Blue Bottle
pocked with pits
                   and bubbles

broken before tossed

jagged sharp
its bottom was
                   until water salt

smoothed its edges
recoloring
                   the glass a creamy lighter blue

blue bottle
broken weathered discolored
                   the journey

its story
is the brittle crinkled
                paper message

that should've  been
lodged
              within

Whit Howland © 2019