The last sip of coffee is usually cold

Today I am wearing a sweater,
leggings, and clogs.
I will create the November,
that should have happened last.
My coffee is in a mug,
to temporarily forget that plastic exists.
College aged girls are studying,
reminding me sweetly
of my failed experience.

I am sweating profusely, it’s 90 degrees
and humid, why am i wearing this?
This mug only
results in extra work for the barista.
They probably hate the people
who use their mugs.
Why did drop out?
Can I actually make it without a degree?
Well it’s not my fault that I went crazy.
My mind doesn’t work the way I want it to.

Band practice

The tools are more expensive
than the end product,
most of the time.

What I will produce with these $60 worth of tools ,
will be laying around,
for only my mother to see.

Writing is free but
painting,
is a luxury.

When poems go nowhere,
like this one,
there is the opportunity to erase, delete,
cut and manipulate,

without a trace of a letter.

Painting is layered, mistakes and all.
What is and
what could have been.

Hidden to the eye,
but existent in the nature.

Light

I felt deeply and without remorse,
so much so,
that I was stamped with a label
and imprisoned.

In a moment of sole
feeling,
the mind is lost,
the logic is disregarded.
What is left is the warmth of every single nerve in the body,
electricity.

The light, pulsing
storm like but balanced, with no
shame involved.

I felt,
and I can’t explain fully
because my thoughts weren’t
involved.

Anywhere but here

I sit in blank,
with no wording.

Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,
mood,
another,
state.

Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.

How lovely,
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.

For now, this empty,
soulless,
Starbucks will
do.
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,

anywhere but here.

I’m not here

I am attempting to keep the
state, that I am in, a secret
from myself.

Delusion is the only protection I have
from my current situation.

I have nothing, and no future plans to
look forward to.

I miss people and a specific person.

I have no transportation,
so I am as stranded as my train
of thought.

Dislocation is heavy on the heart,
but good for the art.