Sometimes I look both ways at green lights,
as if I expect for the cars
to come flying
through the intersection.
Or I feel bad for emptying
the world that I took down
myself, with two hands,
but with good intentions.
But no one could ever touch me.
I up here alone looking down on you,
wishing you had wings to fly
away from all that kills inside.
It hangs by a needle
on the blackboard.
The image captured
so well in four frames.
Look at the smile
I used to get by.
Our lips,
bang bang.
A year later
I couldn’t have told you
that I wouldn’t be able
to return to this place with you.
There was this door that hid
behind the vines that hugged
the brick wall
at the back of the yard.
It kept the words locked
like a safe. You’re hiding
from me. You are
far away.
As I look down upon the valley floor,
I can’t help but ask why
you got the short end of the stick.
I could see
before you,
But I didn’t experience
before you.
I wish I could trade spots baby
because you deserve more
than was ever given to you.
That bed has my name written all over it.
Lucky is all I was
and am today.
I haven’t earned anything
that I love to claim.
“Keep letting him do the talkin’.
See where that gets ya.
Back to where ya started:
where everyone believes ya.”
But they shouldn’t.
Nah, they should be careful.
They can’t predict
the next move I’ll make.
It started with the seam,
before it moved to the collar,
and before I knew it,
my shirt was on fire.
Sometimes it takes a perspective
from the bottom of the mountain
to realize how tall you were
when you stood at the top.
I can almost feel the passport
in my hand,
clutched tightly.
Oh, this is humbling.
I’m not ready for it,
But my head is looking north,
and once I reach the top again
I’m never coming back down.
Light me up bartender.
They don’t seem to understand
the importance of a good story.
Turn the jazz up a bit, would ya?
I’m trying to find a balance here.
I’m conniving the best way to bring him down.
I don’t see the other side here.
Editorializing it is,
while I feign his intelligence.
Don sure would’ve been proud,
as I was of him.
But I’m not one to say it.
Pour me another bartender.
I’m waiting on tomorrow’s paper.
The intimacy of black and white
fills your home every night
at 6 o’clock,
and I’m the one you’re watching.
I swear it smells like autumn,
with warm days that turn
into chilled nights.
Earth make up your mind.
But I’m loving the potential,
for a calm November evening,
and the peaces of December,
which fall like snowflakes in my palms.
Everyone seems to be waiting
for the moment
in which I miss the step
and fall by the wayside.
But they don’t seem to understand
that I never fall,
I never crumble,
and I make the rules.
That was a cold walk home,
at least it didn’t last very long.
Time is just waiting
for me to give in.
Probably never speak of this.
Probably for the better.
The lack of emotion gets harder to read
with every letter.
I keep the light on to
brighten my eyes
to what’s clearly standing
right in front of me.
I want to remember the night stars
falling into our hands.
I’ll only remember the attitude of the angry sun
peeking out from behind the Earth.
I must flex.
Like a drug for my ears to replace,
the notes enter my blood vessels.
If you have nothing nice to say…