The cold air stings my nose

The cold air stings my nose
Making my eyes watery
On a cold summer morning.
This feeling rare and waverly
Passing with the season
Replaced by a constant sting.

The sting is welcome.
It reminds me of youth
Not yet gone, but not present.
Dissipating in a sleuth
Towards quarter-life-crisis.
A creation of the year 1996.

Oh, to be young and ignorant.
Oh, to be young and wise.
A generation aware of the gap
A generation aware of demise.
The canyon approaches faster
As if downhill we approach on skateboard.

All doubt and no support
Makes a generation irreproachable.
There is nothing you can say
Anymore to make us sociable
Towards your ideals
Your archaic and close-minded ideals.

However, my old friend,
Let us not have this conversation.
Let us reminisce on a common feeling
To promote social justice evasion.
Excuse my sarcasm, it is when I tell the truth.
Truth is, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Instead let us remember that sting.
That summer morning cold air
Which in our youth reminded us
That the day was new, and fair.
Ignorant bliss, granted by adults
To children, who would do the same.

Oh, how I miss that ignorant bliss
When mom and dad were perfect.

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“We should get a drink”

“We should get a drink.”
The classic vain offer
Given by a friend
Cheers’ed by myself
Agreement to be let down
Agreement to be neglected
Agreement to be left
Sitting, wondering why I said yes again
Sitting, wondering why he doesn’t show
Sitting, knowing that I saw this coming.

Why offer empty words
That sour like milk curds
Downgrading me to two-thirds
A human like the past herds.

I am human, I feel remorse.
When you leave me at the booth
To pay my own bill.
It’s cheaper than usual.
One beer, seven-ninety-nine.
One burger, eleven-ninety-nine.
One bill, twenty-one dollars and eighteen cents.
I paid the bill, like usual.
I tipped the waitress, like usual.
I sat for one more drink, like usual.

I sit hoping you’re just late.
Maybe you’ll somehow skate
Through the door with visible shake
Apologizing for perpetual mistake.

But you won’t.
I’ll see you at work the next day.
And you’ll leave me with the same words.
“We should get a drink.”
And my response?
“Yeah, for sure.”

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If you were awake at night,
Unable to sleep, unable to rest,
Would you look over the edge?
Observe your own death?

The indeterminate space between
The living and the dead
Where creativity lives
Closed arms and crossed legs

I stare into her eyes every night
A reluctant Salvador Dali
Walking in the equilibrium
Of that taut wire nightly.

I can see the Inbetween
I speak with the greats,
I attempt to paint with them,
I am no good, compared to these fates.

They care not, they only accept
Grateful for the company
Creativity eases her stance
Staring at my heart hungrily.

She is queen here in the Inbetween.
These relics she hangs with, her servants
The monarchy is not dead here,
She is worshiped, by minds overburdened.

Overburdened by a lack of sleep
From looking over the edge
From seeing something they must mimic
Something not-of-this-word, full fledged,
Eager to show the real world,
What their tormented mind sees.

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The Plastic Bag

Somebody, please find someone who cares
About the plastic bag drifting in my yard.
Drifting in my wispy pale face
Traveling through this dead grass space.
Today it is my responsibility
If I neglect it, tomorrow it is yours.
Find someone who cares
For my jar has been opened
And those around me,
Took what they wanted.

Sunrises and Sunsets are Cheap

Sunrises and sunsets are cheap.
An easy display of colors
Plastered as crass metal in sky,
Textured by puffs of vapors.

To think, you were created
With more care than some sunset.
More intricate details lie in your freckles
Than a sunrise I will soon forget.

I tell you the truth, the God honest truth,
They got nothing on you.
When God created the sun it was for all,
When He created you, it was for few.

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Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

I watched as salty water
Repainted her pink toenails.
Gray sand stuck to them
Like ten fingers intertwined.

In a sea of faces red,
She is the wave above all.
Roaring with power, yet-
Graceful as she moves.

She has no idea her significance
No idea how she washes over
My skin, leaving trace of salt
With every gentle lap.

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Broadway, Nashville.

Push past the homeless people.
Step over the waist-high garbage piles.
Ignore that triple digit bar tab.
That smell? Snub your nose.
The music is but a hum in my ear.
Everything is background.

You. You are what I reach for in this place.
I step in line with your off-tempo pace.
I spend lavishly, for money is cyclical.
Your perfume is all I smell, so mystical.
All I need to hear is your voice,
It carries me from here- your choice.

I am a sucker for your love
Though it is not pure as white dove
I hope it to be eternal
I pray it to be immortal
I realize your limitations
And I’m not too stupid to realize imitations.

There is fake, there is real
What I can promise of how I feel
Is that my words, these words,
They are forever, like hymnal chords.
For when our vessels fail and the end is near,
History will remember my prayer.

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