On a Winter Day

Warm soup
Sipped slowly.
Trickled down
Itching throats
That managed to trap
The cold outside
Inside them.

They said that
Warm soup
Melts down the cold
Which reaches down
To your chest
And numbs
Your eyes
Your nose
Your head.

Regardless,
Warm soup
On a cold winter day
Sounds like
A damn good idea.

Warm sunshine
Soaked in slowly.
Streamed down
Through open doorways
That managed to trap
The cold outside
Inside them.

They said that
Warm sunshine
Dissolves all cold
That settles around
The furniture.
And made still
The photographs
The book covers
The shadows.

Regardless,
Warm sunshine
On a cold winter day
Sounds like
A damn good idea.

Warm bodies
Held closely.
As they wrapped around
Beneath blankets
That managed to trap
The warm inside
Between fingers.

They said that
Warm bodies
Leave behind
Cold cavities
That grow into
Terrible frozen storms
That numb
Mind
Heart
Body.

Regardless,
Warm bodies
On a cold winter day,
Sounds like
A damn good idea. 

Enough

I am not tired enough

To sleep on the couch

Or on the bed,

The floor,

The road.

I'm not tired enough 

To take back the words. 

That I meant to say.

I'm not tired enough to 

To fall into the trappings

That Fate has left for me.

I'm not tired enough to

Fall off the cliffs

That the roads I have chosen

Take me. 

I'm not tired enough to

Blind myself with the screams

And fear that embrace me.

I'm not tired enough to

Plaster posters with glue

That won't let it come off 

The walls.

I'm not tired enough

To burn out

The wick that catches fire.

I'm not tired enough

To not have anymore desire.

I'm not tired enough 

To empty bottles of cough syrup

That was left for me.

I'm not tired enough

To find my spaces

In secret silences.

I'm not tired enough

To stand in the middle

Of train tracks,

Of loops of rope,

Of steel and wood,

Of bullets,

Of people 

Who are 

Tired 

Enough.

I'm not tired enough.

But I am not alive.

Its a difficult situation

To not be enough of

Anything.

Posthomous

This diary of mine

Waiting to be opened

By some stranger

Who'll recognize the importance

Of my most intimate
And private
Thoughts

Concerns 

Life.

After I'm dead and gone,

He'll publish it someday

And my legacy

Will be open to 

Love, entertainment
Judgement, resentment,

To anyone who speaks
And everyone who listens.

Illusions

I had a dream
It was blurred at its ends
I didn't know where I was turning
But I knew I was going
Somewhere.
I replayed it several times in my head
I let it foster in my heart
Till I was comfortable enough
With the thought of
Never getting up.

I had a box
It was chipped at its ends
I didn't have the key
But I knew it kept an important
Secret.
I decorated it with beads and silver
I let it become my refuge
Till I was comfortable enough
With the thought of
Making it my home.

I had a letter
It was frayed at its ends
I didn't know the words
But I knew it had my
Past.
I rewrote it several times on the walls
I let the symbols
Become my syllables
Till I was comfortable enough
With the thought of
Never speaking again.