To Be Continued…

I’ve stayed awake all night writing letters that I’ll never sign

filling cup after cup with bitter coffee even though I never reach the bottom

before the fluid hurt gets cold, and loses its appeal

listening to 3 minutes of every song before skipping to the next

to avoid the bridge that I don’t know the lyrics to

never sitting down long enough to see the end of the film

I was watching just to procrastinate

I’ve only read half, maybe less, of just about every one of Bukowski’s books

and never have the heart to read until the last page

leaving unfinished poems strewn about the room from one corner to other

they are accompanied by cigarettes that saw 2 drags

before my lungs decided enough was enough

flowers far past the point of living that I had planted but never watered

they’re a melancholic sort of decoration that were given a purpose

but were never given a clear direction

and like us

I could bring all of these things to a close if I wanted to

for now, I think that this book in particular

is better left open

Slightly Sharper Much Less Sweet

His tongue is sharper and quicker

than any edge I have ever used

to lighten the mood

and he knows exactly where to cut the deepest

so that an intoxicating sort of resentment

pours from wounds so thin

I don’t even see them at first

cuts so deep rarely heal cleanly

but leave handsome scars

from one corner of my chest

to the other

and as ugly as the world may think they are

they remind me of him

every raised line is like a poignant remark

and every shallow crater another kiss goodbye

not too long and just bitter enough

to leave me alone in a wake of my own indignation

as I grope through the contents of our previous exchanges

like a blind man

looking through a drawer he’d never opened before

and when he returns I’ll still be looking

empty-handed, defeated

but I’ll stand up and laugh in his face anyway

as I straighten just enough to hold in front of him

my mock victory and he’ll say to me once more

let’s begin again

No Ship Floats Where Remembrance Does Not

I’ve spent months

that felt like years

trying so hard

just to sail away from you

and yet you’ve drifted closer

and more often by

then the wreckage

that I knew

so much better than yours.

I’ve sunk ships that were larger,

stronger,

and had much wider sterns than yours,

but I could never even poke a hole

in your sail

or leave a dent in your hull.

Now, as I ease and trim the sails

you fade to the distance

but as I turn leeward

the wind carries me back to you anyway

and I wonder if it even matters

the direction I face.

 

An Open Letter To A Closed Addiction

Everything about me

makes me long for you,

and every long day

makes me miss those fleeting moments

we shared together.

Every tear I shed

reminds me

of the ones you wiped from my face

and as the pain gets a little worse

I try not to remember

how you made it better.

Every word I write

is pushing you away

so for now

I’ll be the one thats new

and you can be weathered.

 

Cowering In The Past, Hiding From The Future

Sometimes I have to grab her hand

and pull her out of the past

because she’ll stay there so long

even I wont be able to see the future.

 

Staring so hard at all of the things that she wishes she could change

that she doesn’t even see whats been passing her by.

 

If she hadn’t spent so much time

focused on the past way back then

I think maybe her present

would be so much different now.

 

I really wish I could show her what she’s missing

but sometimes its hard to take your own advice.