Echoes of gas stations,
sunken eyes and unkempt hair
swarm my mind
as I drive down a desolate road
in the dead of winter.
My coffee, hot as all hell,
stains my shirt and burns my throat.
I was homesick
for an imaginary place.
I had been searching for my home
but nothing stuck,
nothing but loneliness, empty roads
and the taste of burnt coffee grounds-
maybe that’s my home now.
At least they can’t break my heart.
I have this need to be seen,
something I haven’t much felt before.
It’s strong, a yearning for standing in busy malls
and sitting in the middle of the coffee shop.
I’ve never felt this kind of yearning;
I fear if I’m not seen I‘ll be forgotten
and what am I but what others perceive?
And so I go to the coffee shop,
I order myself a medium iced mocha
and I melt into the people around me.
I listen but I don’t stare.
I am what you make of me.
I am nothing
I am just another body and face
I am not a soul
I do not have my own free will
I do not have my own thoughts
I am what you make of me
I am the idea of me you created
I am nothing
I am nothing.
I found solace under a tree,
planted new life where you used to be.
There was nothing elegant about it,
it was beautiful in the way you find yourself
at your lowest point, alone with thoughts and grief.
But I can feel again,
and that has to mean something.
There’s new life in my veins.
I can feel it when it rains,
but I can’t say it’s the same.
Window slightly cracked,
a cool breeze passes
and I awake.
The smell of dew
and birds chirping
make me feel something
I haven’t felt in a while.
I never wake up this early,
but my window outlooks the east
and I can see the sun rising-
almost enough to keep me awake.
I haven’t written in a month,
it’s been a tough summer,
but there’s something about
cool summer mornings.
I don’t feel so broken.
Despair cloaked in irony,
layers of deep seeded anguish
behind a joke, a one-liner
designed to fool anyone who listens.
I smile while I lie to their faces.
With the laughter,
the one form of acceptance I know,
it’s like you want me to lie more.
What am I if not a joke and a grin?
When the jokes stop, so do your invitations,
when I can’t bring myself to keep up the facade,
you’ll leave just like they all have.
It’s not pretty, it’s an art
the way it’s all so goddamn predictable.
They ask questions that fuel their own self doubt
because they need to do better than me,
but all I ask is
what does that achieve?
Late at night, darkened room,
windows down, a single owl outside.
It has no nest, perches on a branch beside my window.
I don’t sleep when he’s out there,
but I never bring myself to shut the window.
Because who will listen if not me?
He’s got a lot to say, this homeless bird,
and he’s always alone,
Maybe I feel connected to it-
projecting my own loneliness
onto this brown nocturnal owl,
hoping maybe if I let this bird speak
someone will let me, too.
I travelled across the states
searching for a feeling.
A feeling I knew I could feel
because I’d felt it once before
years before it all went downhill.
I knew the feeling in dreams,
in books, in shows, in movies,
but I’d be lying if I said I felt it anymore.
I know I’m not miserable,
I’m not hopeless or destined for failure,
but when the sun sets, what’s left?
I remember motivation like a childhood memory,
it’s a foggy feeling I can vaguely comprehend,
so I go on walks, I go on road trips,
I try new things in an effort to bring the feeling back.
Sometimes I wonder if the world wants me.