a word written
better than a sound forgotten
a trek is a sojourn
when no one comes with you

and

life has always been lonely
cause no one wants the thoughts
I keep

still i speak
despite the raking of fingernails
down the blackboard
tearing words into letters

I chose never to write
or to never send
what the fuck is the difference?

the words died
the roadkill in my dreams
bleeding out
as passersby gawk
but
keep on moving

I have but a choice
breath

or not

Indeed, sir
you are rare.

I fancied myself to be
one-of-a-kind,
but there's no truth
to that.

from time to time
I miss the rot in my gut
that the 2 am coffee left
while the chess board
stared back at me
taunting me to move

the first drag of a morning cig
the last puff before bed
if they were all like that in between
I would have never quit
coffee or cigarettes

but I left those vices behind
and stumbled the streets
my father paved

I used to think outside the box
no I can barely look beyond it
without fear
of what
I don't know
Probably that I'll never write again

I'm not a poet, although I want to be
I'm not a writer, although I want to be
I am not rare, although I think I used to be
some day, I think I'll try and go and find me.
I can't have gotten too far away.