I wake up tired,

it's a cynical rest,

don't sleep too much

else the cyclical test

of wasted time

will circle back

and tie my mind

in knots I'm terrified to unwind,

I pulled so hard and still no sign

of why it's impossible to find

that one blue wire, one

screw loose in place,

should've blew it off before, save face

while you bet less on golden fate,

less heart to take or breath to waste,

but hey, I burned it anyways,

I waved the smoke

into my lungs

and knowledge stung, but doubt: it choked;

new trees don't grow,

I was once told,

until the old have all burned down,

and well, if falling to the ground

is all to which I can amount,

then be the spark,

and I'll be the ash,

and there is just one thing I'll ask:

I killed my phoenix.

take yours back.

It's London at night,

All reflections and shadows,

Puddles and strangers,

Idyllic, but not quite -

It's dappled jade leaves,

Black mosaics and streetlights,

Scarlet melting to amber,

Gorgeous, but not right -

It's the splash of lone footsteps,

On mossy stone streets,

Under shimmering rain,

Sparkling, but not bright -

It's a forged, stolen painting,

Tinged blue at the edges,

Under rose lenses, perfect,

But I've opened my eyes tonight.

Surrounded by

A golden bubble,

Spark amidst

The navy nightfall –

A cup of tea

To drown the shadows,

Melt the silence

And the nightmares –

Digital glow

To rival sunlight,

Familiar blank page

Stares me down –

Melodies beating

In my eardrums –

That song I heard

Last year, downtown…

The words are flowing,

But they’re foggy –

Reminiscence,

Relics of sound –

I can’t quite focus

On the meanings –

Drowning in

A sea of voices:

Laughing, shouting,

Friendly fire,

And the song

Plays on, unnoticed –

And there’s a certain…

Scent: sharp, minty –

At the edges of my hearing,

There from all those days ago –

The time I took that creaky night train

From that same decrepit station

With the guitarist and the newsstand

Where I bought that gum to chew –

Stuffed it in a pocket,

With my earbuds and the postcard

That I bought, a dollar twenty,

Just to send to you –

Sat composing,

All the way home,

Letters I’d write and

Oh, the things I’d do…

But once my stop came,

Melodies drifted –

Voices muted, greenish blue,

Words unsaid, page blank anew…

And it fell apart,

To pieces,

Music crumbling like paper –

Gone: the violins, the cellos…

And a dagger,

Slowly twisting,

Every time a fresh

New poison –

Minty fresh,

Almost a cheerful spite –

Haunts me yet

Another

Night.

look: I can't see.

I don't know

if it's worth it,

but once

upon a time

it was.

I don't know

if it's 

the right

decision,

but I

will

choose 

it

just

because.

nice thing about the nighttime

is you don't see the sun shine

lose ray envy, no spotlight

on wrinkled paper, crooked lines

look straight from a bird's eye,

just step up, be this high

to enter, but too sick to ride.

falling through space

and if we let go

gravity floats away too

leaves aceless jet streams

glass faces rippling

wake ripping scared wounds 

in blue wrapping

the present rarely

surprises ever

yet the lights

find themselves

brightening

when I said I would jump, I

     hoped

I could build my

     wings as I fell, but

I found myself

     undeserving

among the birds

     passing by;

we were all found

      out falling

though it looked

     more like flying

while I was alone

     standing there

with the trees'

green dappled leaves,

     jaded gold skies

through streaks of red -

     I wished to bleed

into the clouds

     and maybe then

I'd keep a dream

     alive.

they say eyes

     are windows to the soul -

we're built with

     walls in mind and

     hands to hold

but we can't

     stop

     the rocks we throw - 

our eyes are

     centered on black holes -

and glass: it 

     shatters foolishly,

     although

before it was

     just smoke,

and yet the colors -

     not grey, no -

     they shine

when light

     hits edge

just so.

city like a disco ball and a smoke machine - 

     smoking cigarettes by a street stand selling people's dreams - 

red lights through a red flag waving, 1-dollar lemonade,

     green letters faded, paling legitimacy,

paper-thin, seeping 

     through the cracks in our history - 

it's people,

     all the way down;

downtown on the subway in a ball gown,

     curving dirty, mud on the cold ground -

unraveled at the edges, full on falling apart,

     old, maybe - she's a hardhearted lady -

but she's trying to save herself;

     it's frayed, shelf never said where 

it's made, but it's held

     together by the center, all the 

threads and intersections,

     and their paths are always crossing

even if she's not the boss, well

     still there's always a tomorrow

and the sorrow might be gone

     by then;

by them;

     it's all by them - 

the books, the shows, and heaven when

     or more like if she gets that far,

and bar lights shifting in her glass

     as the night slips fast and

nobody asks but she's

     losing her

grasp;

     falling into cracked pasts

that we pass on the

     sidewalk, careful not to break

your back;

     and if you close your

eyes, it's all 

     black.