Tomorrow will be just the same
as today (and yesterday, too),
so would you mind to spare some
change?
A nickel, two dimes,
a handful of pennies and
a pocket full of jingle,
does little more than
weigh
me
down.
Tomorrow will be just the same
as today (and yesterday, too)
so would you mind to spare some
change,
if the only change
was you?
How I wish I could live
an existence like yours,
where every word,
every breath,
were deserving
of poetry.
And,
it’s hands catching hair and
tongues catching teeth and
dry grass catching fire,
it’s
hearts catching breath and
sheets catching limbs and
fears catching in the great
release of tension,
and there’s nothing to be
afraid of anymore,
just in time for
round two.
Every painful silent second
breeds a host of tomorrow’s fears
that this time was the last time,
that a mistake is final,
that the fate is finite,
that what dreams may come
disappear like fine linen in a bay window
breeze.
I will always be
the home without the walls,
the love without the noose,
the free before the fall,
the collision before the crash.
Try and try again,
the struggle to crack the
coveted smile,
the tears at my eyes when I realize,
yes,
this is everything I need.
Just let me try
again.
Bricks
and
mortar
and
plexiglass so I can see the outside
where I left you
there
in the elements.
I meant to build you
in here
with me,
but I’m shit at reading blueprints.
I really ought to sleep,
but the words just keep spilling
and the heart keeps tearing
and the hands keep fumbling
and tomorrow’s never
close
enough.
The night keeps on shrinking,
but the days just keep dragging
and the force just keeps pulling
and the walls just
keep
stopping.
I really ought to sleep,
but there’s nothing
to wake up to.
Frozen up
like how Winter snaps its fingers,
killing off bud and leaf and sun.
Sticky words and hollow mind,
like how I say all of the wrong things,
in rhythm-less meter.
Please disregard this false notice.
The night is unkind,
this head is unkempt,
and oh—you have my apologies.
I’m shit at anything,
save for the disorganized,
rampant
thoughts that like to chat
over tea.
Grabbing at the long,
thin tendrils of smoke,
twirling them between
deft fingertips,
wishing instead for ribbon,
or even bits of string,
something more substantial
than the suspension of particles
in the open air,
than the suspense,
the question of:
what’s been left burning, anyway?
