I tried to make myself another.
The mask was ready and in place.
Yet you could see past the me I made.
You bid farewell to the me you saw;
now I must bid farewell to the me I made for you.

I don’t run on Thursdays.
Thursdays are for dancing shoes and a lovely lady.
Thursdays are for sharp daggers and a new lonely.
I didn’t run on Thursdays.

Pigments and Pixels
Torn and tossed into the pacific.
They have traveled with me three years.
From journal to journal, a consistency of you,
No longer there.

“Repent, the end is near”
A painted sign at a busy intersection.
The end has been near for quite some time.
Yet, my end is closer than I care to admit.
“Repent, Your end is near.”
Would be the sign that I would carry,
Maybe dulling the voice inside me:
“Repent, My end is near.”

Dreams get smaller.
Years and knowledge chip away at their borders.
Disillusionment lays waste to once fertile fields.
Fields become gardens, forgotten from a shed,
Until an old man dies in a small room,
wondering where the years went.

I make you in my mind.
I make you my ambitions and desires.
You unmake yourself.
You make yourself real.
I know there is someone beyond myself.
Because you, as you, are so much more.

We used to walk on grass,
Through trees and glades.
Now we walk on concrete,
Through forests of glass and brick.
Things are harder now,
like corners and bodies.
The soft cannot survive.

“Are you happy?”
“Yeah I’m happy.”
“Really?”
“No.”