he could paint hearts helping any lost soul find love in any helpless moment
strangers say he resembled Euphrates in every picture frame he was captured in
a tortured artist who’s sly tongue could sell sand to a camel—a humble poet who’s ego was unprecedented
—or unappreciated?
unaccepted?
undiscovered by strangers he sees as lovers
silent type typing lines as fast as his unconscious whispers the next word to the sequence
or madness?
happiness?
no, just a hobby at best.
just a stress reliever while work demands attention;
more immediate than a brat’s confession of abandonment while the parent is scheduling plans for his 17th birthday the day the child turns three…
a long time ago he and I didn’t feel so different
now why don’t I feel the same as he does though?

confusion is a ramble that both the speaker and listener losses a sense of direction with…

direction?
dictation?
no, it’s a vacation from overthinking…
just pour out this swarming storm of emotions
just pour out the bottle and let your new voice please answer
a drink doesn’t matter - a sip won’t make him panic
he’s calm like an ocean but can scream like a hammer
a psychotic unstable pacifist
more lost then bones in a wedge under the wreckage
on a salary as underpaid as an audiologist analyst
always here to listen never to speak;
someone always needs a shoulder he just shuffles his feet
crazy lazy weekends ends in reruns locked on repeat

—SHOW TIME—

Sorry for the way I stumbled into your life.
I swear to God-the floor was pulling at my ankles…
also! the celling top was giving me a backside high-five — the moment I finished the fifth and after the sun turned off the lights.

I embarrass myself each time I try to embrace this side,
cliche as falling in love like a rerun television show—
freaking out like a pubescent clown realizing he should have grown up to be a mime;
a silent touch of romantic irony, laughing at my own jokes,
until this awkward moment flies out the window…

stop me if you heard this one before;
why did time grow wings?
to fly by like a crow squalling-
that it is past time you should be married…

—PUNCH LINE—

unreliable communication
=
incomprehensible interpretations

being an addict to tragic accidents-
known as flirtatious Failures fulling the fire
of the metaphorical dying flicker to the love life of our protagonist-
this is precisely what was prophesied
from a poet’s birthday candle wishes.

it’s funny how Lady Luck and cousin karma have this affair of misfortune;
capsizing all relationships—
that were set to sail—
hook-line-and-sinker stationary in an icy-burn isolation.

hopefully time can thaw out this doomed  autobiography (of a poetic confession trapped with 4 borders boring the audience awaiting the same confession)
he has been struggling to sense together,
since the first line that was typed…

—MAKING UP MY MIND—

so I stand up with a straight face—
swallow the frog and eat the butterflies for breakfast—
walk up to you with full intentions,
with a sly grin you echo the words I mummer; just as a mic in a crowed place,
I repeat in a shy broken throat-making me more of a fool from the words I chose-
latter to laugh
and just to write about
how embarrassing I made our very first date…

humanity vs insanity;
a joke vs the punchline;
art captured in a single sentence-
such an inspiration seeing the beauty in pain-
a story of how life is;
absence vs abuse ;
addiction and his muse;
just one more semicolon to the self aware audience that this  triumph continues;
despondency of a tragic backstory leaves complacent agony of a stereo-typical-dictionary-picture-perfect-literary-school-subject­-finger-snapping-cloaked-poet-eddy-outcast-finger-poking-laugh-st­ock-lesser-person-desperate-feeling-introspective-adolescent-prot­agonist-of-the-1sided-tragic-heroic-epic-anthology-of-a-dark-mind­ed-online-persona-posting-exposed-person-caught-lurking-only-want­ing-something-someone(?)-person-love(?)-showing-only-rejecting-cr­iticism-critiquing-only-meant-toBe-helping-overthinking-over-thin­king…

Over
Thinking

tripping so hard licking dry cement
talking so wack losing all common-sense
dreams so dead what did any of it meant
babe’s flesh feels like plastic meat

eyes all wide LOOKING RIGHT AT ME
EYES ALL WIDE glares just like a creep
no one speaks RESPECT THE DEAD
NO ONE LEAVES this is the end

delirious hyperactive paranoia
delicious hypersensitive paraphernalia
spongebob episodes play out like a poem
sobbing like a hobo in my motorhome

in a bleak  betraying  whimsical way
I want to lay in the desolate snow with you.
paraphrasing how poets say
I want to grow old with you- so I’ll try:

<𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 & 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦>
melancholy = mediocrely
medicinal = manipulative
promises = broken    

clichés and critics say my love is predictable and scripted
that I’m foreshadowing tragedies or my muse is figurative
I never did well in English - but you made me pick up the pen
I never thought I’d fall in love - but you make me want to do it again

I care less who sees this - except you
I’ll just take another hiatus - until you tell me how good did I do?