bending over to tie her shoes on a busy street sidewalk proved to be difficult

she didn’t care

saturday’s all seemed the same for Sam

the flow of faces, some familiar, couldn’t stop her from competing with laces or something similar

Sundays she wore straps

it wasn’t the shoes that caused her to stop

Sam enjoyed making people uncomfortable while claiming her spot

her space

Sam danced in construction zones while car horns roared out of habit. a cha cha cha to the blah blah blah of wherever the fuck people were going.

she wasn’t

going anywhere

anywhere as defined by what ‘they’ prepared to judge the way our minutes are tallied in effort to reward you for walking the right way on trained and narrow sidewalks not cumbersome back allies

Sam just walked

and danced

taking the road that’d give her a chance to unleash what years of school and people at the pool did to her with shame and fear a indelible smear on the soul of innocence that guts our ability to elevate out of this city not just our city or town or country but from the mental servitude that makes us destined to show gratitude to something somewhere that wants to stop us

from being us

conformity

Sam doesn’t tie double knots

your voice was heard in a series of secret crisis statements made at the end of a water logged day when i decide it was best to stay inside

i sat alone on my couch believing the escalation of sources and validity of diligent remorses would help us move on

identifying each of us by name a field aflame with counterpunch blame shifting in our chairs with uneasy awareness

what we saw and what you said danced naked for all to see

i liked the way you moved

on a tv set

that’s how i knew you

two dimensional and buried in moving words selected for sensitive souls to be moved to act

they sit a wall away from me

still in shame stained sheets

crusty remnants of what they should have done

what we all should do

open the door

you wanted to leave

i caught sight of the way you kept tugging your sleeve

anticipation for someone to believe you’re never coming back the way you once conceived in this night weaved in front of us

pleasure on a platter

the ghosts speak up and acquaintances scatter

regular love in the color of light splashed on doorways for us to know where not to go if this desert drive proves anything about our love

clouds formed from forgotten words

breath coming from a place you had once reserved for theft now brings warmth where shivered emotions were in high supply

“it’s easy to die” you’d say

i wished i knew that

not so i could leave

so i could stand sure and graft to the branches of exalted love where carefree children swing for days, not looking for answers, not searching for keys, not unlocking anything

just swinging for the swing and the sound of unregulated laughter

i can’t leave

there’s too much to forget

i’m not sure what i’m doing anymore

am i writing poetry? what is that? but a stream of words that somehow connect i’m lacking form, or is that the style? what’s the package suppose to look like?

words run together in characters and emotions some i use often to capture this explosion, a gallery of thoughts spewed on the page resting easily now their out of this grey matter cage. is poetry just thoughts? i do that all day incessantly. think. even the inane can create a cacophony of images that swirl above me keeping my scowl staked perfectly to my face to ward off the fucking alternate universes and different space that people use to erase their short comings and fucked up decisions that land them on soil without a damn thing coming up. that’ll happen, you’ll be pushing. do i need to write words and themes from the past to make sure the dedication to language will last. a cheesy rockabilly band in a smokeless dim lit dungeon with swaying drunks trying to find rhythm to another era- they’re doing their part, never let it die. people don’t want to dig, their fingers get dirty diving deeper for developed window sills to reach up and pull for a better view. all i continue to want to do is say fuck you and you and you. their are millions of tickets written and somehow, somewhere someone will want to hear my voice and give a shit to want to come back? nope. yes? i need to undress? oh, dress it up. friends will visit to make sure i’m sane, family could care less, they either don’t want to know, think they know or check in to confirm the personality they’ve created is underwater. i can’t change. won’t change. single story bullshit clouding their ability to meet someone new who’ll be honest.

is this a journal entry now? dear journal, i’m tired and sick of false stories falling from people’s mouth to magnify reality and feel relevant. i’m disappointed in a lot of people lately, guessing that means myself. i’m not sure why though?

who needs a journal. i’ll just tag you when we smile and stick my hand through your limp squished no opinion having back in your sleep to kill off this harvest of destroyed potential we reap. a crop needs to be turned over whether used or not, rotate and plot a new path to laugh at the splash of blood through night owls coming to feed on this frenzy of lost thoughts that somehow i need.

why would i continue to save you

conversations culminate in a pleading passive aggressive attempt at burning down the house while i turn off the burner wondering how you continue to avoid death

helpless

words are all you have to construct a carousel of faces and stories that no one cares enough to verify, not sure why, my pulse pounds when i inhale the spew of shit that flies from your mouth that would send you south, if i believed that. instead i commit to the hell of living around you when the bells jingle and the temperatures push us into lily pad lakes filled with left over phrases commenting how things were different when they were said as opposed to how they are when we see that no one took off the roof and replaced it. you wanted them to, not knowing we’d visit so soon.

it’s really on me