Going back to bed
Is so much better
Than falling asleep in the first place

this morning the sun rose again on my
internet defying my loss of hope
giving me opportunity to enter again
into the nether-poetry-sphere to
dump on you five days of pent up
brilliance

but all my poems
of thoughts and lost socks
seems drab compared to the
color of the bits and bytes
on my glorious connected

world.

Impetuously, the sun seems
to enjoy it’s early rising
with what appears, to me, to be
absolutely
no consideration

Impetuously, I return to
my ever-too-slight-of-a-slumber
with the hopes that
perhaps,
impetuously,
the sun may decide
to hide a while
before it rises again

heaven is so far away
from earth
and why?
it takes so much
effort to get to
the sky
it ruins your
high
you want to go up
but they say
nigh
your persistence
run dry
your bed is
a sty
do we ever leave
earth?
is there something
to find?
some place in
your mind
where all words are
kind?
or is
any way out just
a lie.

It’s the simple things
like
sipping cold milk from a
Collins
or
knowing what a Collins
even is.

Like an open stage format
at a local bar
with
a man and his
5-string
and a man
and his 6-string
and two (count ’em two)
saxophones.

It’s
one more
cliche
free-verse
po-em
written
at the
end of
a long
, long
, day.

but mostly,
it’s
the cold milk
in a Collins

i want to ask you
if you’d like to light
a fire underneath
i am a match itching to
burn
i can promise you a blaze
this wildfire would
take its toll and
roll like a catalyst
through our arteries
and if your world is
too quiet just let me
know

oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
these things
well i can’t stop
these things
sitting in a crowded room i am high as a balloon i want to be with you sitting in a crowded room
oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
hoping