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This neighbor of mine

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I thought I’d heard it all

until I heard a man

screaming at the top of his lungs

on a Sunday morning

at the mother of his child, because

for some people being an adult

just doesn’t quite fit in with their lifestyle—

This neighbor of mine

let’s call him Ray, he walks to the beat of his own drummer.

And frankly, that drummer sucks.

Whether he’s high all day, shouting who wants Champagne! (on a Thursday afternoon) or chasing women from his apartment claiming they’re trespassing while hollering,

YOU SELL SEX FOR FREE!

Hell, Ray does it all.

Record producer! Club promoter!

Youtube celebrity!

He’s a real stand up guy—

And all the while he’s shouting about custody.

Custody?

You mean the baby’s only in there half the time?

Well, I’ll be damned…

it’s 4am—and here we go again.

The best part is when he calls himself a grown ass man—screaming about a 34$ bottle of booze.

I mean, really?

You can’t make this shit up.

Darkest Is The Hour

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Starry is the night.

This pain I’d spare for change.

Accept it or reject it,

it’s either way the same.

Misty comes the morning.

An afternoon of rain.

It’s quiet in the evening,

but isn’t that the way?

To offer one protection.

A coat from bustling wind.

If only could my doorstep,

provide the warmth within.

Though darkest is the hour.

The brightest star may fall.

I dare not wish upon it,

but marvel still in awe.

How elegant it sounds.

Sweet agony by dawn.

When days aren’t worth repeating,

who am I in your sky?

Trinkets In A Storeroom

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If I thought you had no value

I’d let you fall apart.

Like trinkets in a storeroom

To once belonged a heart.

In worlds so unforgiving

where love’s a dying art,

it’s natural to be painted

like Van Gogh in the dark.

See candle light can guide you

but only goes so far,

don’t look beyond the shadows

for beatings of the heart.

For if you had no value

I’d let their theories win.

Like trinkets in a storeroom

Whose worth is found within.

Two Worlds Within A World

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Your world’s in careful order

while mine’s in disarray,

I’ve tried to read between the lines

but there’s just empty space.

When dumb luck gets regarded

for gentle hands of fate,

I sit for hours wondering

whose world has been misplaced?

This fault line, it grows deeper

the longer that I think,

what good are silver lining’s with

prospects neither believe?

Is what I forge through fiction

just white lies for dispute?

I try to keep my distance

to organize what’s true.

Seems when I find the meaning

these worlds they split apart,

now mine’s in careful order

like yours was from the start.

As for that space between?

There’s no room left for me.

There’s nothing to be found

I’ve lived there long enough.

I’m happier with words that mean

exactly what they mean.

I’m happier to be a part

than live in disarray.

If it’s time that pulls the strings

than it’s I who’d rather be,

two worlds within a world

alone—

three worlds to form a whole.

Keep trying but, I don’t scare that easy.

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The lights are on,

but the drive’s not there.

I wonder if this happens to everyone?

I’m sure it does, except

I’m not everyone.

And you, you’re part of them but lately

only half as strong.

Does that sound correct?

Or am I just scratching an itch

not meant to be scratched?

Am I bucketing a well

when all that’s left is rain?

I hear you when you say you’re tired.

I’m tired too.

And when you say you’re trying, love

I’m trying too.

I feel you when you’re breaking,

partly because I’m breaking too.

I feel it when your heart is aching,

since mine’s been split in two.

What’s left than but a couple lines?

Enough to prove our sorrow?

For all the many times I’ve died

I’ve always seen tomorrow.

It’s hardest when you say

the words that help you sleep,

so sleep as many days

as it took for me to wake.

Besides, I feel much better since

I know this fight’s a gas,

it’s a wonky handle left we clutch

of a longing meant to last.

The Perks of You

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As daylight wanes, and night begins

there’s rapture in the air.

With static thought, and moonlit eyes

I see it all too clear.

What’s written in the stars, is written in the sand.

What’s written on the heart, is written now by hand.

My love for you is twilight.

My love for you is snow.

My love for you is many things, my love for you is old.

I’ve kept it in the shadows, of poetry and light.

I’ve kept it in the darkness, to brighten up my night.

Just know my heart is dancing, like fire unto stone.

Just know my heart is breaking, each night I am alone.

As daylight comes, I feel you near—

the darkness goes away.

The perks of you are endless still, your love’s a weathervane.

Four Walls And Myself.

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Head in palm I sit defeated.

It’s not out of necessity

but choice, I think how come?

In a world of opportunity, what’s left of me but this?

Tangled in my heartache, what’s left for me but this?

Fist to chin I sit and wait,

for thought to turn to word, to pen.

Has writing any of this down, ever made me any sense?

Has stewing in this endless grief, ever made me any cents?

It’s times like this I dare not move.

I dare not speak but listen,

to the winds which wrap my innocence

in a shroud of Turin—distant.

What’s left of me but gall?

The daylight helps me see,

somewhere within this shell of me

is darkness and that’s all.

I wish I had the answer, the one you claim to see.

I wish I had your courage, your courage to believe.

This wooden desk is cold.

My heart is growing old.

I’d rhyme a couple lines or two, if younger were my skin.

Settling I feel, my insides wearing thin.

What’s left of me but this?

What’s left for me is everything I fear to touch with reason.

What’s left of me’s so tangled in the ever changing seasons.

With arms crossed round my chest, I sit in awful doubt.

It’s here I know the meaning, of four walls and myself.

It’s here I risk repeating, a fate which is not mine.

It’s here I hope I’m worthy still, of love which I’ve denied.

Let The Dog Run Free

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Now comes the time of alternate opinions,

alternate thoughts and alternate feelings.

The kind you don’t dare say out loud.

I wonder how much pain it’ll take to stop?

I wonder how much love is too much?

I wonder how many nights are lost because—

When biting your nails to the bone seems useless

then what else is there, really but to stop.

Or else keep biting, bone can’t be that hard can it?

Still I’d rather draw the blinds or go outside.

Hell I’d rather lay down and die than live a lie.

You see, these things we don’t dare say out loud,

reserved for private evenings

start to find us in our daytime logic,

prying to be let out like a mangled dog.

And won’t we wear our self destruction like a choker.

Like a badge of honor.

Like a cruel

cold

chain—of events.

Won’t we kneel and pray before we give our due.

Won’t we commit ourselves to countless acts of excruciating

self-reliance just to know we did it alone.

It’s that feeling of being so good that it feels you’re no good at all.

That feeling of having tried so hard, for so long,

against so many odds, such awful scrutiny

and then being told I told you so,

like all your effort was for not—but it was.

Now comes the time of alternate opinions,

where everybody told you so, where everybody seems to know.

Now comes the time of alternate thoughts,

where nothing seems right, where everything feels wrong.

Now comes the time of alternate feelings,

where maybe you jumped the gun, but who am I to say?

I put the barrel to my temple a long time ago.

And let the dog run free.

We speak a different language,

I know that you do too—

It’s the kind they don’t dare speak out loud.

It’s the kind they put us down for.

As If We Existed

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It wasn’t ever fun

Even when it lasted

There was always hidden

A motive and agenda

Something I couldn’t figure from afar—

I needed microscopic certainty

That I’d have to disappear

In order to remember—

For them to forget—

That either of us had ever existed

What feels right is wrong

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Do they make you feel less?

Overwhelmed and unimpressed

like being anywhere else would have

you feeling overdressed?

We always know the problem

but never how to solve them.

We offer salutations which

just form another problem—

When you’re left feeling more

like love’s less than a chore,

the answer’s in the subtlety

as subtle as before—

We always play along

like life’s a lonely song.

You’re singing to a choir if

what feels right is wrong.