The sun is in my hair
it feels gothic
to send black hearts
yet truthful.
You have gone
blocked the rain
from touching my skin.
You came and went
in this caffeine rush
not reading the menu
nor my frazzled mind.
All these nonsensical words
lined up in disarray for you
written on lined paper
and uneven phrases
not a cliché but the truth.
The people here have empty
ten a.m eyes.
Do you ever feel
as if you are the only one
who can see that?
Perhaps you are a photographer
and you document souls
line them up on clotheslines
trap them in time.
Perhaps you are an artist
who paints empty faces
sells your art
at local cafés.
Maybe you create music
on paper, in your mind,
in your garage,
or you’re like me
writing poems
and books
on your phone
in your notes
in journals.
Perhaps you think
you are the best out there,
or your own personal best bullshit
I shattered these dreams
and I think
I suck
I am the worst
just to start over
to forget everything
you remember
about me.
The Day After
