the art

In all this ache to be something more beautiful,

I’m sat up in small tragedy, uninterested in universal truth.

The soft flowers, romanticized past recognition, are dying,

but the harsh air is my most hopeful element,

and their bare stems still fall over in the wind.

A dismal relation is all it takes to find solace in the waiting game.

Blowing clouds around the waiting game, this is my home now.

A heavy heart, don’t you know, is good for art.

So I slouch and spill onto the carpet,

squint my eyes, pat the solid ground,

that my hand may fall on something to believe in.

A blatant tug from below on the crooked drawer, I need a pen,

my retainer falls out on top of water-stained birth control.

I stub my toe on the desk chair, a pile of sweaters and a mess of old coffee join me on the carpet.

But where’s the place to barge into,

fundamentally raggedy,

to fall into someone and sob,

to be a thing worth dragging to the shower,

to be checked in on.

I’m not drunk- I’m depressed.

I can’t imagine loving someone so much, and then screaming for them to get out.

I can’t imagine waking up empty.

I can’t imagine keeping up.

So many of us toss and turn,

but I don’t want to sleep without you.

So many of us are so polite.

Go get ’em, kiddo.