Why do we all drift away,
from everyone except now-friend;
old friends fading out,
like a train into a tunnel,
never to be thought of again.

Time passes in this way,
for better or worse,
and friendships pass away.

Are we akin to goldfish,
with our flawed memories,
destined to always discover,
a new castle in our fish bowl,
that was there the entire time.

Maybe the thrill of something new,
that feeling of novelty,
whether it be in friends or lovers,
is something we cherish,
in a self-destructive, and broken way.

Maybe it accounts for our failures,
in communication,
in friendship,
and in love.

Maybe fear,
and doubt,
have nothing to do with it.

well, maybe.

I could write thousands of poems,
and never pin that down,
even though it never moves or changes.

Every poem I try,
is so close,
but maybe not as close,
as the one before,
but who ever knows.

Abstracts;
always fluid,
never solid.

It escapes the pen,
but not the imagination,
whether it’s success,
love,
happiness,
hatred,
victory,
or defeat.

It is always on the tip of the mind,
and yet, never on the tip of one’s pen.

It isn’t enough to make the reader feel it,
it must jump from the pages,
and claw away your throat,
or I have failed you.

Failure is the feeling one achieves,
when they feel they’ve finally captured,
something worth yelling from the mountains,
only to realize it isn’t quite there at all.

The cycle continues,
poem by poem,
song by song,
and life by life.

tonight is one of those nights,
isn’t it?

there’s some deadly feeling of boredom,
hanging around my neck, choking me.

It’s not in what you’ve said,
who you’ve become,
or what you’ve done,
it’s something more.

It’s a feeling that became,
a hurricane of emotions,
never letting up,
with nowhere to take refuge.

I write poems that act as walls,
to protect me from the storm,
but they always fail me,
just as my poems fail you.

You search for something more,
some flame to light your way,
through your darkest moments,
but the light never comes,
and all you see are words,
on a computer screen,
or piece of paper.

Life is lived alone,
despite our best protests.

We all think ourselves experts,
when it comes to love,
as though nobody else has ever,
loved like us,
lost like us,
cared like us.

How foolish,
and infantile,
love makes us.

Like kids in a sandbox,
unwilling to believe,
everyone’s had the same toy,
whether they lost it,
threw it away,
hold onto it,
or haven’t unwrapped it yet.

Why don’t you just settle?

Settle for something less,
settle down,
even settle for someone less,
than what you hoped for.

It’s happening in slow-motion,
and I am watching it with a sly grin.

We all say we’d never settle for anything,
and yeah, we’re good liars,
but clearly not good enough.

Your heart knows it,
your friends know it,
your mind just hasn’t caught on,
but it’s whispering,
yeah, baby, it’s whispering.

What happens when the chorus comes along,
and gets stuck in your head?

A perception of failure,
a life of unhappiness,
or once more out to sea;
what will it be?

Tell me what you know;
nothing.

None of us know what is happening,
what the essence of life is,
or if there is any discernible meaning.

Most of us just think we do,
that is the problem.

You don’t want somebody who is intelligent.

That means they can challenge you,
question you,
and influence you.

They will require conversation,
signs of approval or disapproval,
AND signs you also have a brain!

O, the horror of having to be alive,
or at least pretend to be conscious!

The sheer travesty of conversations,
that probe further than lol’s and n2m’s,
who would ever imagine that to be enjoyable!?

Certainly not any respectable citizen,
in this perfect age we live in,
where short-forms rule the day,
and anything longer than 140 characters,
is completely wasteful and useless!

Believe me,
you don’t want anybody that is intelligent.

People stumble through love,
never trying to understand it,
or really take it apart, ever.

Love shouldn’t be passive,
it’s not instantaneous,
and it never dies,
no matter what.

If I loved you years ago,
I still love you now,
it’s just different.

Love is a word that gets,
tossed around,
spewed out,
attached to everything,
one becomes dependent on.

It no longer explains,
the unique combination,
of apathy and empathy,
where everything just is.

It doesn’t mean anything,
anymore,
to anyone,
and maybe if never did.

Maybe I was your world,
or the other guy,
or nothing at all;
it all matters.

Every piece on the board,
has it’s specific role,
no matter how big or small.

Love doesn’t choose,
we choose.

Everyone is warped by the cycles of love;
the ebbs and the flows.

Accept that,
and live well.

There’s a quality about life,
that always refuses to change;
that we’re on a boat drifting,
we are powerless to alter that.

We can not change our course,
in any drastic, meaningful fashion,
never jump out of the boat we’re in,
because we can not swim in this sea.

Many have tried to swim,
and soon become too tired,
and they die horrible ways.

Still a part of me wants,
to feel the cooling water,
and then maybe come back,
but I’ll probably drift,
just like everybody else,
to the end of my days,
accomplishing nothing.

Great beasts swim in the water,
occasionally swallowing a boat,
whole, without chewing at all;
the beasts are cloaked in black.

I look around at the other passengers,
floating in all of the other vessels,
and wonder if any of them understands,
or if I truly am lost on the sea of life.