everyone is so near

pushing up against me

i can almost feel them

with my hands

and i can see them

hear what they say

but that is it

i don’t feel them inside at all

where it matters

i am alone

and i am not someone

who likes to be alone

lying in my bed with my eyes wide open

listening to a song

and waiting for something to click

i feel like i’m not here

and none of this is real

and nothing at all is happening

feeling so much like i am just drifting by

and nothing i love lasts or will last

watching each self-important minute pass

like it is fleeing from me

because i don’t know how to use it right

or maybe didn’t deserve it to begin with

spending each night outside myself

searching my mind for a way out

for my heart

chasing my thoughts away in bars

and finding them waiting for me

when i get back

and it never feels like home

when I walk into my room

exhausted but far from sleep

unable to feel connected to

or a part of the simplest things

that might mean something to me

waiting for the nightmares

to give way to dreams

wanting to move past this reality

into a new and brighter one

but never sure that will happen

and feeling so much longing and sadness

way beyond the concept of unrequited love

and I almost laugh when people tell me

the rift between us

can be filled with facts

or with time

or with anything but pain

each day is a struggle getting out of bed

with no sense of accomplishment

when i finally do

the strength is there but the will is lacking

all this freakish energy with no direction

wears me and those around me down

“exhaustive”—i hear it a lot

and i can make no answer to that charge

how else to be other than how i am

but i wish i wasn’t me sometimes

and sometimes i wish i was you

or simply that i could change

the water

“Hand me the water”

“Don’t drink all the water.”

“I think we knocked over the water.”

“It’s your tunr to go get some more water.”

The water. It’s that glass of refreshing goodness on the night table. Its appearance as we went into her room to go to bed always signalled to me that this night was going to be a good night. That we were going to make love. And it was on the bedstand a heck of a lot.

When she would bring it into the room, it was a promise. When I would get it, it was more like a question. But it wasn’t bad, being that way. It was just our way—how we did things. The water was an unspoken communication between us. She’d tell me, while we were catching our breath and rearranging the bedclothes--afterwards-- not to drink all the water. I never would. If I did, well, I‘d get more water.

And it would be another question.

---

reset button

Your perfume on a stranger as I cross a street

Your hair on my clothes even after they’ve been dry cleaned

A song on the radio that keeps me from sleep

Your words in my head that stay stuck on repeat

“I love you”

“I love you”

“I love you”

***

“You’ve gotta go”

---

squatter

Get out, you little cheapskate

Get out of my space

You haven’t paid the rent in months

And it doesn’t look like you’re going to

So get the hell out, already

You signed all the papers

And moved in your things

You hung up your pictures

And painted the walls in your color

And made yourself toast every night

Things were real peachy

And there were some good times

Then you suddenly quit your job,

And locked your door from inside

And I haven’t seen you for weeks

I can hear you tinkering around in there

I guess you are just passing the time

Waiting for the sheriff to evict you

Well, apparently he’s busy, so I am waiting too.

Why won’t you just leave?

I steal your mail

And I’ve turned off your heat

I’ve shut off the power

And I don’t even wanna know how you are keeping clean

Yet you persist, somehow

You’re squatting in my heart

And I’m losing out each day you’re there

I can’t go in and clean it out

I can’t fix what you’ve broken

And no one else can move in

---

bluesman

I wish there was a way to be more easy-going about my sadness. I wish I could feel bluesy and resigned about it. Maybe if I could play guitar, I could get to there. I could sing little ditties about it, filled with beautiful bittersweet words that were at the same time indicative of my maturity, and clearly showed that I accepted the reality of these painful feelings. I wish I believed in a someday that would make all this all right. Maybe, if I could play guitar, this would all be a lot more manageable.

---

you're in

i got 86’ed from her tree

so respectfullye

and I got told to take care of me

so sincerely

well that’s just pee pee pee

so now I’m sitting at the bar

or I’m in the car

with the radio on

playing some sad song

where did I go wrong?

i’ve lit my head on fire

and slashed her tires

clipped her telephone wires

and ached with desire

until my hand grew tired

and if I could go back again

i’d try to be her friend

i’d try not to pretend

and believe her when

she says “this will end”

---

spoutain

my words come in a bunch

and spring up like a water spout

they burst forth from the ocean

and rise powerfully into the air

a massive force breaking the surface

and pushing all above it skyward

but I can never quite place them

directly under you

(which is ironic, because that’s exactly where I feel I am)

so all you hear is a loud eruption

and see this plume in the distance

sometimes you get a bit wet

from the spray

and sometimes you rise and fall

just a little

from the waves they create

---

MORE STUFF I’VE WRITTEN

Thanks again for visiting, Now Go Back HOME