Poems exploring the theme of whether or not we create our world, through past reflections.
Right around the time the hypothetical was practical
I wondered if my ideological self would go on sabbatical.
Tired from the synonym of fuckin' with phenomenons
to see that the mess you're in is not the end but just beginning
is still the end of somewhere serious. What gives
when life is on the line...what's supposed to live?
Every bad decision needs a place to call home;
invasive and spacious, gracious and salaciously known
at the bar drunk-dialing every scar and regret.
The infection trumps the attraction to the fullest extent.
Spit another diatribe because a temptress can't hide
when you're dying from the insides of your left-behinds.
You tell me we can talk about it later but conveniently forgot
because I'm always worried about me...until I'm not.
I try to keep the conversation trimmed to "enjoy"
but the joy is on my nerves again like it's into destroying
all the pieces of the broken pieces I've saved of me.
Some say it's misery. I call it "company of self-inflicted conspiracy".
Another time, we'd close the tabs as if we had a purpose
but I buried those memories in boots that said
"Thank you for your service."