Note To Self

I’m not fond of it. And it’s something I can never put my finger on. I can be having quite the innocuous day – somewhat pleasant, fairly uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary will have occurred – when I am just dealt the most sucker of punches to my emotional sternum. I feel my mental legs buckling beneath me, slipping into the wash of melancholy, muddy and oppressive.

I am hit with the Sad.
A Bushel of Blegh.

You could lay at my feet all the smiles and laughter that had just been bouncing about, deliver happy chirps of well-meaning pick-me-up cliches, wrap me in the Tomorrow Is Another Day positivity that you keep handy for occasions such as these…

They will all be shunned.

Not because I don’t want any of those and more.
Not because I enjoy the depressing descent into Debbie Downerville.


I will ruin every last bit of bright and shiny you give me. I will dejectedly demolish every grin and chuckle with my clumsy clompy feet. Accidentally muffle and strangulate the once vibrant twittering of good intentions. I will shred to pieces the shawl of optimism, never a chance to warm against the shivering dankness of the dark.

I would rather you keep those bits to yourself. Keep every last piece intact. Protect each one from my awkwardly ambling slippery with the Sad self.

I may be a dumpy mess, but I am not a monster.

don’t mind me

Just ignore me
No one likes the moody woman cloaked in silence and a hard lined grimace.
You won’t ask me what’s wrong
Because you’re afraid the answer is You.

At first… No.
It isn’t.
The world in all its ignorance upsets me,
Time with its fast paced stroll
Just short of sprinting past me and my memories that are lagging behind in a different era
Time angers me
People in general
Not completely happy with their lives
Tolerable of their friends
Disgusted with their occupations
People … make my head hurt.

And while I am morosely curling into my shell of quiet,
You ignore me.

Content in your bubble colored oblivious
You’ll never ask me what’s wrong.
So with each passing second
It becomes

The Russian

I woke up
after having seen you in my dream

I awoke
It was with such
A desire to
really have been so close to you
sitting there
across from your open face
your crooked
happy smile
those eyes
so very nearly

This wretched dream
I remembered
so much
You would leave a peck
on my cheek
while I slept
sprawled and tangled
in the sheets of your bed
Barely a stir
Consciousness piqued by the
smell of toast
and your favorite

stumbling out
into the shocking
one eye open

Your outline
but voice
And I hear you
gentle and



Those memories
brought to surface
by a ridiculous

What I’d give to have kept

Joe and I


I have these moments
I’m tempted to say yes
I know I shouldn’t

The answer should be no.

But I can’t.

The lure of contentment
starts swallowing at my feet

I am slipping in
Being enveloped by the serene
Of escape

And as each powdered trail
– oh you know –

The blurring of reality
Becomes that much more dim

And I read you my poetry
You run your fingers across my bass
Tapping lightly
Squinting against the rising
Of another sun

Discussion of past transgressions
We are falling
But sitting still
Finding ourselves
In each other

The sunlight shocks
Some semblance
of Sense
Into our Self-constructed

The two high school
Now grown
And Broken

Pain in your voice
Agony in my heart

Let’s run away again

But the Sun is so bright

And you start to sing

“Beautiful girl…. stay with me…”

The night was long
And fell short

I want to burn bright like the sun.
That won’t happen.

I am already a pile of ash.

not altogether something

Like the clumsy clingy kisses of an ardent amateur lover, I could feel the grotesque stickiness of the summer night fumbling over my exposed limbs. In my car, windows down, my fingers felt the steering wheel going gummy. My poor dilapidated beast of transport’s AC couldn’t even bother to sputter out lukewarm air.

And what the hell was that smell?

Having lost the space to roam in the soft cushiony crevices of my brain, thoughts were crashing haphazardly into the walls of my skull, headache soon to arrive. I almost ran through the red.

Stopped, engine idling, a small horde of hipsters crossed the street. Young, laughing, debating music, art and authors. Attired in mock jadedness and cynicism, the hope of possibility could not be shrouded by such a farce. Their stroll was far too strident, cheeks too rosy, smiles too genuine.

And it occurred to me, I knew this because I envied them. I was jealous of the world being their cliched oyster. Pensive, sweaty and sad, I accepted one of the first of many truths to come. I had lost touch with who I was. Lost sight of who I had wanted to be.

Green means Go.

Tired foot off the brake, I continued my sojourn home. Broke, poor, lonely, lost – I randomly eyed my neighborhood. The place I was conceived and born into. The same place I fled the moment I had the chance. The one and only place to which I returned when nowhere else would have me.

Back to square one. So it would seem.

moth to the flame

He looked at her
as though she was the only one in the room
in the building
in the existence of mankind

She knew that look
and she felt weary
The last person she told
to not fall in love with her


She felt some part
of her spirit

She wasn’t beautiful
perhaps attractive
She wasn’t successful
she managed to get by

She wasn’t a lot of things
but the life
she had lived
of varying extremes
lay idly and apparent
in her eyes

Maybe that’s what it was
Man’s base instinct
to either protect
or prey

She was smarter than the predators
sympathetic to the ones who wished
to protect

She smiled at him
and with sadness buried deep
where only she could find it
thought to herself

here we go again