Creation has time constraints

The fruit is rotting

I can see my hands past the core

Seeds trickle through my fingers

I can’t go back to the store

It is closing at midnight and it is half-past when I was okay

I just want to see tomorrow in its glory

Fifty cents in my pocket gets me nowhere but a reminder of the fruit seeds

Of what could have flourished into trees

Baring fruits that fill my needs

But the seeds are metal tokens clanking in my pocket full of holes

Never growing into home

I do not have water to nourish them

Or the ground to bury them

I can wait

I cannot wait

Guess I will wait

For spring

I miss you all so much but I’m also glad you’re gone

I am still here

Many many years are on top of this chest

Since I first laid down on this side of the bed

Once again existing at 3 am

So sober as the ghost train echos

Hearing the haunting cries of steel shaking

Breaking up the cold air and deadened night

From this warm safe room

It tastes like hopelessness

And a sly sense of humour

There is no owl in the window this time

Only the same memories with new injuries

Tragedy has come and gone and

I am still here

the ugliness I embrace

again and again

I revisit this place

it is familiar in every way

the touch of the wooded floors and furniture

the scent of metal

taste of chemical

dark light covers me

shaded thoughts ravage me

it is a war between what could be and what may be inevitable


I might as well

settle down

sink into a soft red couch

exhale the smoke

accept this life

my life