One Hundred Twenty

One hundred twenty months don't hide what I didn't do.
After ten years' time I can't be sure I even remember you.
I never pictured myself this much older.
I can't believe I'm still no wiser.
I can't believe a decade is all I get–
So long to decimate my soul with regret.

I never really moved from where she left me.
Here I am, on the other side of should-be,
Surrounded by questions I can't answer.

They call this living–
Just one more thing
I never did for her.

Let's Play a Game

At first it was “let's play a game of six-on-one.
Winners don't have to sit in the corner and cry!”
Eventually, the games got a little more sly,
and I stopped sitting in the corner.
Finally, we played around of “monkeys see, monkeys do.”
Ever had a hundred people try to look like you?

I never belonged,
But I survived.

Now, on the way from too little new
To way too much to do,
I'm constricted by an ill-fitting schedule.
The long arm of bureaucracy thrashes me up and down–
One toe-deep end-one toe-deep end.
I don't belong...

Nightmares

Naked in a room full of people you know,

Falling, and waiting to hit, but you don't,

Or the dead-soul dullness behind the eyes

Of someone who turned your unwaking life

Into something even the dead wouldn't want–

The content is never important.

What's important is that fear is only a dream.

Unbelievability

Unbelievability,
Sesquipedalian,
Triskaidekaphilia,
Antidisestablishmentarianism–
Why do we have words like them?
I've always assumed it's because
Anything you can't say in one word
Doesn't count.
Otherwise,
Why would someone try
To reduce "poetry" to one word?

More Than Fair, Pt. 2

You make me run when you won't move,
Interrupt me, but demand I listen to you.
You stay at home, but then you lash
At me when I'm not chasing cash.
You gawk, then tell me not to stare,
But as a muse, you're more than fair.

Illogical

My behavior around you
If not yet ill-fated,
Has been ill-conceived,
Most times illogical,
Perhaps inexplicable,
Try as you may have.
You've called it love;
You've called it madness;
I've disagreed that there's a difference.

A Dog and a Poet

I never understood “artists” who are always on the grind
For more of what store clerks and pizza boys find.
I'm as commercial as a slight breeze, and almost as driven.
I'm a dog and a poet. That's the mind I've been given.
I don't spend effort chasing “that story,” “that rhyme.”
I'm just looking to flavor (or waste) lots of time.