Winter's days have become one,
Mashed together to form one dreadful night,
As my eyes become bloodshot, another gulp of pungent whiskey.
On this night when the moon's luminance reveals itself through a sheet of blank clouds,
And I'm left confined in the purgatory of a lonely bedroom, Whose once blue walls have all but burnt to black,
As they seem to broaden to maximize my desolation.
I question my existence.
I question my sanity.
I question when I will see the sun again.
For the moon may be the only soul who is as lonely as I.

But the moon seeks solace in himself,
And does not comfort me as the way you once did,
On these drunken nights where the enemy was the bottom of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s.
What took away my everything,
Was the only thing that could aid me in my resurrection.
So now I lay here,
Alone.
Questioning everything,
Scrambling to fix all that's been broken,
Building these deplorable ramshackle buildings on top of broken rubble,
With shards of glass and stinging tears as they mix with the blood on my hands,
But that doesn't matter, does it?
It will crumble, no matter how many times I try over and over again to rebuild.
This idiotic tower of sanity.
Why not just lay in this defeat?
And accept the harrowing fate that failure is upon me.
Let myself reek with self pity.
And drench myself with vomits of slurred words like,
"I miss you, I love you."

In my melancholy rage,
I'll take what is left of my body out into the cold,
In attempt to feel something real again as I dance with frozen tears in the numbing blanket of snow,
Convincing myself you will soon join me as I glare up at a flavorless, charcoal sky,
Cursing the bland stars who don't comfort the moon like they once did,
As I throw up the final chunks of the parts of my body that were still alive.

I watch in horror in front of me as they crawl out,
Like spiders as they trickle into the night with eyes wide.
For now I'm stuck here,
Glancing around for help that will never come,
Trying desperately to gather pieces of a broken puzzle with weak hands and shaking fingers.
So now, I lay here.
Bare.
On the ground.
Everything splayed out for the world to step on and see.
All my mysteries drawn out,
All the secrets are no more,
All my thoughts, read like a book.
And as my insides spill and leak out further and further from my abdomen,
The crimson splurges and spits out.
So I clench my last hope,
The few drops left of honey whiskey in a bottle,
And I close my eyes,
For one last time.

in a perplexing, infinite universe
ridden with countless planets uninhabited
and others flourishing with unknown life
within it, remains galaxies left unreachable and unexplored
floating on a boundless sea of black
littered with scatters of scintillating stars
acting as buoys to latch on to when off course amidst a spacewalk adventure
and landmarks to identify direction when lost in the vast array of emptiness

yet, here you are
shining as brilliantly as the celestial bodies that stretch across the canvas of night
and I am lucky enough to be able to latch onto you when I am astray in my own small town
I don't need to sail across an endless space ocean in a nautical journey in search of you
your beams are close enough for me to feel your nourishing warmth at all times
so when you greet me with your exhilarating embrace
we produce a light that shines intensely enough for the whole universe to see
so as the aliens navigate through the currents of deep space
they admire passion that burns brighter than anything of its kind
as they paddle in seamless synchronization
in the direction of our path, to find where we are
small town, planet earth
and they'll settle in here, to what they see as a place that must be incredible
because of you
the compass of the universe
the love of my life

my father left on a Thursday
and we buried him on a Sunday
i'd never witnessed an earth so dull
the colors didn't explode and combust
the music didn't serenade and echo
no,
the clouds just poured and poured and poured again
mother said the angels were crying because they didn't want him this soon
their tears fell through the crevasses of a black sky
and my life became a silent film
my eyes could only see tones of grey
and as i removed my small hand from an oversized coat that belonged to him
i held onto the cherry wood of a coffin
i looked into it to see the black and white reflection of a small boy whose sadness could not be defined

and a decade later on Sunday the 8th of the bitter cold month of February
i wake up with colorless vision
and become deaf for the day
i revisit your grave
and the other mourners look on at me
a little child transformed once again
weeping in the warmth of a jacket that only seems to grow larger with time
and the angels can't help but to cry again
their pain reverberates throughout the field of death that appears to have no definite end
i peer over the gray hill of gray tombstones
and my eyes glaze over with a sheet of liquid melancholy
because i realize everyone has their own February the 8th