Ain't no thang

It's a sense of peace
No need to impress, though I'll still dress
like I do
No expectations or presuppositions
It's all just one quiet ride down the lazy river
And I'm more than pleased with the pace of the flow
I'm sorry if this seems odd-
I won't deny that it is
but when you enter the room,
my old flutterfly friends spring to life
and I haven't felt that way in awhile.
Usually, the thought that there's not a symbiotic reaction
would quell the flight plan taking shape as you approach
But for the first time in a long time
I guess I'm not too concerned
Perhaps the fact that there's no chance of it advancing
Creates a sense of satisfaction with the brush of an arm
I'm more than aware that you and I are just friends
Which is why these illicit flutterflies are all the more enjoyable
At least I'm kind of admitting it now

Champagne Lemonade

I had forgotten the taste of sunshine
It's like champagne lemonade dancing on tastebuds
Bringing me to a whole new place
Showering me the crystalline nature of laughter
And the brush of fingertips as the flutter across my hand
And a smile beaming through the morning mist of confusion
And the glisten off of the ripples in a mirthful set of eyes
And for a minute
I just forget the overcast skies I've been staring into
And the rain that's been pelting my window
Though when my eyes open, I know they will be back,
I soak in the taste of sunshine
For
just
one
more
moment.

Not as anonymous

I feel drunk.
Not that I am,
at least, I hope I'm not, but
I feel drunk.
I'm a klutz, traditionally,
but my words have always been my saving grace
slicing through uncertainty
and painting masterpieces of understanding, and now
I feel drunk.
See, when I drink, my words grow dull,
and my verbal work looks like fingerpainting,
muddying any prior understanding and adding to the mess,
and now
I feel drunk.
Because these days,
it seems like every time I open my mouth,
I may be sober as a stone,
but it's whiskey talking.
I don't even drink dark liquor,
but it's whiskey talking.
See, I don't know what I want,
let alone what I need,
And my mouth just keeps running,
Trying to prove it's not drunk at 10 in the morning,
and the sloppy masonry of this defensive wall
indicts its every failure to reassure.
It's not that I need, or want, anyone right now
but it's what I'm supposed to want.
So I slur out a sad excuse for hope
and though I swear to drunk I'm not god
I'm drowning in the inebriation of doubt.
It's not about decisions or predictions or predicaments
It's about me.
I've been weaving verbal tapestries for so long
I don't know how to put the loom down to appreciate
a thread of truth.
So I feel drunk,
And as I double check that the proper punctuation is present
in these beer goggle ramblings,
I know I need 12 steps back to me.

Pen to paper

I feel like I should write
Pen to paper I pause
Waiting for a stream of emotion, flowing in articulate springs,
skipping over pebbles of metaphor and alliteration,
humming along to the tune of truth
but

nothing.

I shake my pen, assuming default, and bend forward again.
I wait for the surge of light to burst forth
sparkling in its pain and intensity
blinding in its raw and honest nature
shining a path for poets to come
but

nothing.

I pull another sheet of paper, thinking a new texture would accommodate.
Hovering over the clean palette
I hold my breath in anticipation for a kaleidoscope
A vortex of color dancing the merengue
To the beat, beat, beat of a broken heart
Tripping over one another in the faltering rhythm,
The result a medley of confusion
but

nothing.

I call on the power of gods that may or may not exist
praying that they might remove the burgeoning mass of madness
protruding from my common sense
A cancer of logic feeding on hope and a Lockean perspective
I put my face to the paper- maybe by osmosis?-
but

nothing.

One tear trickles down my cheek
The first to bear witness to this trainwreck
It's salty essence tracing a path down my face
Almost as twisted as the one that brought me here
And it hits the paper

The saddest part of all is that tear
that single solitary tear
writes the novel of us
It is succinct with the depth I wished you had to begin with.
And it's, I'm, done.