I love being drunk,
it makes the voices accessible in conversation
while other people get to be happy
when all I ever do anymore is complain.
I think things will always get twisted in my mind,
reshaped like a substance
that can be molded into some perfect figure,
something left to collect only dust
until it breaks,
or chips away.
I’ve known the look of blood in my eyes,
it’s a sign of my own self worth
while I test this thing they call grit (that I don’t think even exists).
The way I see it
there will always be insecurities,
that flow of self-consciousness that leaks like sweat
as empty music repeats itself through different voices
and that last lingering feeling
keeps me awake, waiting for more.
Almost Made It
Trying something a little more comedic. It went over well on stage so I thought I’d share it here.
He cried so close to me
that it felt like he was in my arms,
it felt like I was hearing every breath,
every pause to breathe between every word
and the funny thing was this…
I have never been able to remember his name.
I’m a jealous type of guy,
not as crazy as most, but it’s still there
lingering within me like a flint, or catalyst,
just waiting to explode.
I hear you saved one for me,
the last one left
when everyone came asking as politely as they could.
Every time we talk
you give me more reasons to love you,
but all I have for you is this shell,
this beaten down body
I’m always left out there in the open,
out waiting for the crashes and smashes
and interruptions that come so often with conversation.
I can remember the other day when the light came on,
it shined out into a fury in the air
and split like the branches held razors.
All I could do was stare into anything that could be seen,
but nothing would help hide me, only show me
all the things I could never respond to,
like the fun names that people call me when I’m looking,
looking them in they eye and waiting for a laugh.
These are my quiet prayers,
the moments I keep silent,
like keeping to myself
when the birds sing
and everything else
seems too beautiful to fully remember.
We all share these looks,
the ones that compulsively expand from our eyes.
I keep telling myself
“This was never supposed to be my life”
this was only meant to be temporary.
I tried telling her I loved her,
but all that came out were my reasons to leave.
There’s a roar coming from my bar tab,
it screams through the eyes of whoever’s working behind the bottles
and if I don’t pay up soon
I’ll be tossed out on the street.
Left out in the rain
where all the glasses are empty
and the harsh reality of being broke
can always catch you
when you’re out in the sidewalk.