dreams.

it's been seven months

and i still see you

in my dreams.

i thought it would pass

and your memory

would let me be

but it's been seven months

and i still see you

in my dreams.

i think maybe tomorrow

you won't wander

through my thoughts

but seven months have passed

and it's always you

in my dreams.

i've tried replacing you

with someone new

maybe better

but seven months have passed

and it's always you

in my dreams.

i've thrown out pictures

and destroyed all

of our memories

and yet i wake

when i see you

haunting my dreams.

i always think

i've had enough time

to move on

and yet i wake

when i see you

haunting my dreams.

i barely remember

your face

anymore

but i always know

when it's you

because you're the only one

who's in my dreams.

my thoughts & me.

tonight when i was walking through

the forest in the dark

it was just my thoughts and me.

and it's not something new,

because usually it's just us,

and it's always

quieter than i can handle.

it was cold out today and even more tonight,

especially when i was thinking

about how much warmer

i felt before.

but i'm always going back

and forth.

and maybe it's my fault that it's like this

because i know i'm always

running away,

but never running to.

it's just a long distance

that i travel alone.

one more night goes by,

and one more day,

when the sun rises.

and everything seems a little

hazy now.

maybe i just need to put things

into focus.

or maybe i will just

circle in regret

for every decision that i make,

and every moment that

i relive.

it's not really the way i want

to live my life.

but until i reach a point

when i can handle pain

i will just be here

in this forest

taking pictures

so that i can have something

to hold on to,

when it's just my thoughts

and me.

what hurt feels like.

for a moment

there

i thought

things were

better

or at least

less lonely

and now i

just contemplate

if i

did the right

thing

or at least

not wrong

there are hours

when i want

to take it all back

and then

i remember

what hurt

feels like

but i guess

it doesn't really

matter

since i chose

and you're

probably not reading

this anyway

door.

an open door is

swallowing another person

whole

and they disappear

behind the glass

i watch the doors

trick them in

promising shelter

and then just spit them

back out

after

they are shadows

vacant souls just

wandering aimlessly

through life

i am letting it happen

to me again

and wondering

why i do this

if it will just

hurt me

we all think, maybe

it won't happen to us

that our shelter is

found once we walk through

the doors

and become

wrapped up in someone else

but we are just

used

i learn

time after time

they open up

beckon us

and lock us in

until they are bored

of what we have to

offer

i got stuck inside

of you

so basically

i failed again.

maybe.

if only there were

more days

to figure out our lives

and be sure.

but we are always asking

for more

aren't we?

we are given

ample time here

and everything we need

to become who we will.

but we are always blaming

someone else,

don't you?

and hypocrisy is such

a beautiful thing

because it's like seeing

someone punch themself.

but it doesn't stop us from

making judgments

does it?

nothing really makes sense

as an outsider

observing behaviours

and never really living.

but that's our own fault

if we choose to be

that, right?

if i hadn't wasted so much

time observing

judging and blaming

maybe i'd be me.

but i don't really know

who i am,

do you?

saturdays

"saturday is always

all right

if you want to fight me," she said.

"but friday, is a better night

to keep our mouths quiet

and just enjoy what we have...."

h

a

d.

it's almost dawn

and i'm thinking of you.

it's almost light

and i'm lost in the dark.

"but saturday," she said.

"is all right for us."

i remember.

but i'll never agree that it was.

because we will never be all

r

i

g

h

t.

there's a morning breeze,

dew on my window.

but it's not the fog

that you left after

a passionate night

like before.

"saturday is all right," she said.

"there are no other

days to remember."

but i thought

we had something

m

o

r

e

unforgettable.

as i wipe my bloodshot eyes

i remember

that

we are

who we have

become

and we are

who we want

to be.

and maybe,

if that's the case

you are

you

and i will remain

me.

but saturdays are always

the right night

for fighting.

bukowski

What are you supposed to think

when you grow older and all

you have left are books of poems

filled with words that you wrote

but now seem unimportant?

Pages and pages of crap about

the people you've met, loved, hated

but nothing that seems worth

looking back upon because

it just makes you so sick.

When I'm old enough to have

that pathetic collection of poems

that I keep stacked on a table

like puzzle pieces to my wasted life,

I still won't be Bukowski.

At least he knew what the fuck

he was doing and could tie

words together so that they

pulled each other along like

the cars of a freight train.

And all the while I keep writing

because it seems to be the only

constant thing in my life that

will always be there even if

I leave it in the corner, ignored.

But no matter how many pages

and pages of crap I put on paper,

I will never be that asshole that

wrote such beautiful fucking poems.

I'll never be Bukowski.