And money can’t buy you love.

Love, love, love.

People don’t say it enough.

Love, love, love.

And we are all afraid of love.

Love, love, love.

But that is something you can’t get enough.

Love, love, love.

It doesn’t matter what you’re saying, as long as it sounds good. I just want someone to speak the words. Play the sounds so sweet to ear. What you’ve got will all go away. It all does, eventually. Everything. And that’s okay. We don’t believe in anything. We know better. We have watched and read the things you have done. We didn’t witness your failed experiment, but we heard. I don’t cry; not any more. Not for you. Not for anyone. It’s just something I don’t do. If only I had an ear to rain down my woes, my strife, my struggle with life. If only, if only. 

Feet in the air

Where were you today? Where was I tomorrow? All of these questions with questions to follow. I started picking out all of the good and bad parts. My longing for company and my immediate rampart. My sails are full of the force of your reflection, while my inside churn with the your moral indiscretion. Why can’t I configure a plausible route for the rhythm of my mind to my hand; my hand, so astute. But, this folly; this lapse of mental strength is my biggest accomplishment next to the sketching of your face with my finger tips. You lay here laughing at my stoic, distance glance as I look up wondering “what’s going to be the last?”

As the wind came in I couldn’t help but ignore the staining chill. The air I breathed in burned from the drag. The voice in my head, so shrill. I drove. The only freedom I have ever known. The only friend that is always home. The only friend that never ends; winding and dark in it’s eternity. You’re like the ocean; you, winding road. You see everything. You’re not hidden. Not like the wet mask that keeps all beneath it forbidden. I travel both, all by my own. Always solitary, but never alone.

Three or more weeks of not speaking a word

When did I become so joyless. Everything is half full and nearly empty no matter it’s true volume. Am I old? What is young? Time is nearly a construct, isn’t it? I don’t know where to go or what to do about it. When is real life? When am I suppose to grow up? What does this world want me to be? What do I want me to be? Always in the middle. This five year limbo is wearing me thin. When is my life suppose to begin? Where are all of my friends? Have they moved on? Are they moving to new places with their lovers or running away consistency? comfortability? Am I callus in my old age? The sky is as blue as it was when I was a child. I look forward to new things. But, the everyday, the mundane, the initial thrill; that is gone. Academia, it’s been a drain. My biggest regret and soon to be my biggest achievement. It’s a sad funny world seeing that those two things can be one and the same. Steps forward. Steps backward. I have no point of reference. I have no substance in my life. I have no time for life. Everything is on the fly or the spur of the moment. Nothing is planned and nothing is ever enjoyed when it should be. It takes time to note what was good. The bad things, they always show their face when they arrive. What of women? What of love? Do the two go hand in hand? So many names, to many faces. None have asked a single question. Why? Where are we going? What does this mean? How are you feeling? What’s wrong? No questions. All they want are answers. I am not a mind reader. All they want is attention. I am not the only man that will give it. That’s a waste of time for me. Companionship. I need a soldier. I need devotion. I need to be slapped in the face and hear, “Do you see this!? This is what is waiting for you. Why won’t you talk to me? Why do you ignore me? Why am only here when it’s convenient?” No one asks. They all assume. And you know how the saying goes. When you assume; it makes an ass out of you and me.

Guest Appearance When I Was Sleeping

Last night I had the strangest dream. Everything was exactly how it seemed. Except, there was this girl. I knew her. I know of her. I’ve seen her picture. I know some of the songs she likes and the people who sing them. It was oddly inspiring. We held hands and she showed me around her city; one of the few I have yet to see. It’s strange because she lives on my screen. We were in love. As in love as one can be, as far as dreams go. I was in love with her or the idea of her or may be just her face. Either way, she gave me butterflies when I was sleeping. It was oddly, intriguingly strange.