Somewhere Off in the Distance

I 

Grew

       Up

In a town

Where the city limits were

Guarded by Corn stalks, 

Days spent racing 

Trains at

Crossings, snapped wires

Attached to useless

Emergency brakes, and

The cronies and I disposed 

All for a response

Buried deep beneath 

Our skin,

Our       bones,

The scent of Summer

intertwined with lawn-mowed

Wild 

     flowers.

Failing at scrutinizing 

The posterity of us, hoping 

for nothing short of what the

Night, the

Moon engendered. It’s

Serenity resting on 

Our shoulders inconspicuous. 

Hope never came up in conversation,

It’s a word best left to sicknesses, 

Loss, regret, mistakes. Yet

It hung effortlessly 

Like stars, except surreptitious to the

Naked eye. 

Nothing could Compensate the time

Spent on backroads and looking back

Hope, no matter true or false

Is still 

Hope, and despite the river

of youth is beginning to 

Drain, disappear

I hope

You had something similar at least once.

In Regards to Summer Nights and a Breeze

I came home from the

8

hours of making a

living.

My tired, weary hands fed me.

My tired, weary hands bathed me.

Both without

Any thought.

Piles on top of

piles of Pink, final stamped

envelopes 

Awaiting my precept.

2 tablets every

4 hours.

This couldn’t be the shit

I

Dreamt

Of

gazing out

grade school windows

Cracked Foundations

There’s a moment when fate slips through ones hands,
Then the onslaught of desolation amongst one’s heart steps in.
Uninvited.
Vices make petty, friends try to play nice,
Yet we try walking as though we lost a limb.
It’s support no longer prevalent, an imploding bridge,
A burden is born, just as fast as a Midwestern storm,
bliss came into our life and left even quicker,
Decorated in flesh.
Aloneness is not repetitious,
We collapse like decaying walls,
We crack like forgotten foundations.
This is what makes us human,
not inanimate objects.
We are defined by how we take the next step,
Melodious, snickering to ourselves how
They’ll see, oh how they’ll see.
Taking a drag from a cigarette,
Blowing smoke metaphorically into destiny’s face,
Because if our emotions go unused,
They become neglected like foreclosed homes,
Shelter unoccupied when a percentage of this
World is homeless.
And yes, it is going to be hard
And yes, there will be tiny intricacies
That will refuel a past memory, but
We can not let the actions of lost adulation
Affect how we mull through the green grass
En route to our next flame.
Excuses should be left at the welcome mat.
Love is not wasted,
We must pick up the transparent pieces, Straighten our spines,
And march towards whatever shred of inevitable lies ahead.
All the while whispering,
“I’m going to be just fine.”

Waiting to rest our heads

Inside a set of four walls 

Adorned with pictures of

Better days.