Reliving some pockets of memory

is like taking a jagged blade

and carving myself up

to some pseudo-Omnipotent

who just wants me to hurt.

He lashes at me and doesn’t care

I already have a head start

in tearing away at myself.

Nostalgia is like a whip.

Some time ago,

I gave up most thoughts of tomorrow

just to survive today.

It’s mostly worked.

Yet, I have been granted moments

of relief, few but persistent,

enough to make me toss

faded hopes in place of new ones.

A faraway voice singing

about eyes like jewels and pleasure

with no limits

and it’s one more cup before you go

I stare at the cup- I have been that cup,

the last hurrah, a lost little bird

looking for a pillow for my hair

but one more cup and you’re gone

The music is plain but makes me

wild inside,

a flame settling where my heart should be

and maybe I’ll have a cup too

Whatever spirit we seem to share

has no age or season,

a love without reason

and you set the cup down and are gone

At the treeline

impatient

impetuous

with breathing

horizon far ahead

glories behind

internal stomping

before liftoff

It’s hard to find the line

where make-believe takes over

as reality is so nebulous

in its cloudiness and curiosity

when heartsong makes all else fade.

I overhear a girl at the coffee shop

manifesting her dream. It’s catchy.

If I had a lock, I would hand you my key.

It’s noisy now most of the time outside

but I live in a quiet space of thoughts

spinning like eddies on a stream

rushing after a storm. I think it’s real.