This Temporary Life

Well Written words are only half the battle to euphoria.
They are only a re cessitation
to the re hersal for the real lives
we are still waiting to begin.

And for all the places I have laid my head,
I choose the ill-colored bathroom
that is smeared with things I have done.
We were bored and are still bored by the same,
different people who come and came in as easy as they left.


There is no rhetoric in the composition
inked along the sallow skin of your back.
I have long since left you in an awkward purple car.
No, You left me there I confirm.
You left me there with birthday wishes
and the taste of your unbridled and adolescent bigamy.

You are not the only one that left me
in crashed cars of desire.
He left me in the headlights of blackened suburban luxury.

I cannot contest to the happenings
under the radiantly lit streetlights
that had long since left my addled sister away
Guiding relentlessly  others to broken homes and hearts.

But none is more illuminating than the sun slowly shedding lux
on the locker tangled hallways
where hands once had eachother.

And your manicured cable knit sweaters will soon loose the threads that wove us last October.

How thinly abandonment wears on the heart shaped buttons you met me in.

My h o p e/help less search for zen is strangely determined by the welfare of dying flowers of confectionery lovers gone bitter.