The agony of bearing an untold story

could rip your soul apart.

Melting inside.

With every passing tick of the clock,

life making further inroads.

So much was still bound within.

The interiors. The denim.

Nothing has changed.

Fading out membranes- it’s often

a hydroplane accident waiting to happen.


I barely understand why

I function when desolated – a force of habit, a force of nature.

I don’t have all the answers.

I bleed into this life

while blending in with these emotions.


There are

the damaged, the broken,

the lonely, the poisoned,

the angered, the distraught,

the lost,

the music lovers, the drug addicts,

the word lovers, the torn

and the gone.

They call for my writings.

And I,

I remind them,

that the tears never come from the eyes,

it’s the heart that drips.


It’s all neatly planned for a poet, without loss.

These long deep breaths suggest

that I still got a lot of fight left in me.

I plunge, I plunge.

We never really know

which vehicle is going to take us there,

but it’s an awful place to be at, to have it.

To be expunged from your life was so absolute.


We writers, we have to start somewhere,

a broken heart,

or a ripped lung.


or debriefing.


Pretty much, all the skin,

all the cells,

flooded with injectables.

Veins tired of showing up

and popping out.

Blood becomes the favorite smell.


But, I still don’t have all of the answers.

Maybe, I never did.

I’ll be awake while

the moon dances on your eyes

in the depth of dawn.


I am lucidly aware

that you don’t care.

My darling, beauty of the face

fades away.


I could be okay, you could be, too.

But the last blood always belongs

to the practicality of your encephalon,

it kills the heart flow.


I don’t have the answers… I don’t.

I’ll be okay.

For however long these breaths may last,

I’ll keep smiling.

And this will always be my first answer. ♥



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