Poem: The Waiting of My Life

Feeling trapped
time is just passing.
A room, routines,
pissing, pills,
and shopping for food.

A lover, so tough,
she can't even stand
on her own two feet.
Each time I love her
I lend her my shoulder,
dragging me further down
on my very slow climb out.
Up and out
of the dirty prison
The conditions of my Life.

My Health, my Poverty,
my Loneliness, my Pain.
The only answers come from me
She does not offer any.
Just time pleasantly spent
or time tortuously wasted.

She doesn't see
what I see.
Doesn't understand
what I understand.
For all the time I spend with her:
It takes twice as long to recover.

And for all the time
I try to help her,
she tries to help me none.
"So don't try to help me,"
she says in my head,
but that's not my definition
of Love.

For my Life to change
I'm the only one to do it;
No lottery, no family,
no helpers, no miracles.
Just the Power
of my Choices:
Do I work
or go to school?
Or keep sitting on my butt
doing fuck-all,
but get worse.

My life slows down spiraling.
The waiting of my Life.

Poem: Day or Night

Evening falls and I feel relieved.
Night means the day is almost over
and I made it through another one again.
Even though night is
the worst time for me,
the scariest time for me,
the loneliest time for me.
I'm not sure when it happened,
but lately I've been scared
to go to sleep at night.
I've always been scared of Insomnia;
Always been cursed with Insomnia.
Now, I'm scared to sleep,
scared to Dream.
I sleep during the day, now,
enjoying my naps,
while fighting my guilt
for bringing the night closer.
The night I dread
and look forward to
simultaneously.
As the night wares on
I fear the coming day.
The day I'll be exhausted from the night.
But how can one force oneself to sleep?
I can't.
The fear never ends:
Day or Night.
But evening always relieving,
dawn always too soon.
Loneliness makes more sense at night,
it's easier to make excuses for.
Alone all day;
the Sun melts any excuse,
exposing my meager,
lonely,
fearful, existence,
for all it's worth.
The pit in my stomach that asks,
"Where's my friends,
where's my lovers,
where's my life,
what should I do?"
No answers echo back at me,
from my small, white, walls.
Time passes.

Poem: Our Stew

The Stew is Stirred;
it's not ready, yet.
The meat still pink and raw.
The chef refuses
to clean the shrimp,
throw away their shells,
clear their intestinal tracts
of Shit.
Though we are both hungry,
now,
some would say starving.
I know better than to eat
raw stew.
Having wretched it before,
broken-hearted and puking
for months.
Stirring the Stew;
Smelling what wafts to the surface.
Looking for an excuse to eat it,
to taste it even.
But no, I'm too Old for that.
Damn Old.
And this Old Body can't afford
any more sickness.
Starving or hungry,
it matters not.
Bitterly Old; I know too much.
Keep cooking,
young chef,
keep cooking.
Let me know
when you're done
with our Stew.

Poem: I Miss Her Still

I Miss Her Still;
Maybe I Always Will.
Out of Nowhere
I Burst
into Tears.

Though it's been Half a Year
It's my still deepest Fear
that we'll Never
be Together
again.

I Remember Eight Months,
with My Throat Full of Lumps;
When She Wouldn't
or Couldn't
See Me.
And Despite All the Others,
my numerous lovers,
it was Her
I Most Wanted
to See.

Then There was The Year
That I Ran From my Fear
And a Dollar Each Tear,
I'd Be Rich.

But the Truth Still Remains
That Together We're Pains;
While I act a Prick,
She's a Bitch.

So I'll Dream in My Soul,
That Before We Grow Old:
She'll Be Selfless,
I'll Be Healthy,
We'll Be Married,
We'll Be Wealthy.
And I Pray
My Tears Turn
Into Gold.