All Things Are Possible

Dread, padlocked

With the tuft of hair

On the ragdoll's scalp

Seeped with the sweat

Through the coat of hair

I waved goodbye to dead letters

Hung up the phone, holding my frown

It was a salvation they said I wouldn't have to wait

But the plan was cancelled sine die, sine die

My head has been a Davy lamp

In a coal mine

Spoiling for freedom in death

At the davenport

With a notebook in my hand

I wear dimples, looking through field glasses

At midnight I am reminded the past is dead

I wonder, are there any good poets left?

I don't know where they went

The moonlight reflects off the puddles on the wet streets                                                         

The cold winds brush off my cheeks                                                                             

You see, I insisted on this                                                                                                   

The puddles look good enough to drink                                                                         

Almost as if they're a blue tint burned in my mind                                                       

What remains inside is a visceral ache                                                                             

Sadness I can't explain 

I was left with nothing but pain                                                                                                       

Shining like a brand new wedding ring                                                                           

And an insatiable lust for something more                                                                           

Than whiskey slipping down the warm throat                                     

When I closed the door on yesterday                                                                                 

A manuscript for an unfinished book                                                                                               

I sparkled like rays of sunshine                                                                                           

Tiny pieces of broken mirror glittering                                                                           

In the eyes of a wondering fool                                                                                 

Facing the ramifications 

In the process of changing

I have a mountain on my shoulders

Old wounds and room I carved for new memories

I have to force myself to feel happiness

In this cruel world

I've been reduced to helplessness

With sugar on my lips

I listen to the pin drop

Weaved from deception in a drunken stupor

With no memory of the night before

Chipping away at the glossy exterior                                                                   

Dwindling like a flame                                                                                             

Balancing between two extremes                                                                                 

The poetry in living and the art of dying                                                                                         

I am reluctant, unwilling, stressed and anxious                                                                   

I roll my eyes and I sigh

The more I think about death                                                                                           

That unspeakable, broken language                                                                               

The more the idea of it seems normal  to me                                                               

And the more I think about it, that cold morning                                                             

I fall into those thoughts like I am snow                                                                             

Blue dust searching for lost time 

I've forgotten what it feels like to be alive

When I was feeling better than I did

Before my glorious inception

I am pinewood and milkweed

Trapped in life's terrarium

Knee deep in fetishes

With fingers in the aperture

A rush of ecstasy goes through my body

Like pleasure in the rear end

Evidently it's real.