Happy Ending

You said you still wanted to be friends,

But we're not.

I'm not sure we ever were.

Relationships are all give and take,

But friendship gives and reluctantly accepts.

You were mostly good at the taking.

We were.

I don't think I know how to pine for you.

I only know how to miss you,

Though I am relieved that it is over.

I guess I know this as the perfect ending.

Nothing was lost.

Doubtful/Forgettable

I was doubting my mind and my talents,

Doubting my mission and myself.

I was doubting my decision

To get up in the morning,

and you gave me a tiny reason

To doubt that humanity is evil.

It was but a little pinhole

In a wet blanket of a day,

But fear not, I did notice–

and soon enough, I will forget.

On This Site in 1897 (pt. 2)

Nothing important happened today.

Nothing interesting happened today.

Nothing redeeming happened today.

Nothing even made me smile,

Except my own suspicious nature

As a possible pathological liar.

I would say that today was worthless,

But if I have another day not like this...

Even the ugliest bridges have purpose.

Slightly Out of Time

I can't say it's wrong, but it doesn't feel right,

Like rushing out to hear church sermons in the middle of the night.

It ought to be sad if it isn't quite funny

Like a beggar who haggles when people give him money.

Like hearing summer's anthem when I wake to frosts of fall,

Even though it shouldn't, to see you here, now, appalls.

A Room Full of Ghosts

I can't tell if it's the year, or if it's just tonight,

But the corners keep coming, too fast and too blind.

I don't have the heart and can't summon the mind

To tell if I'm wrong or I'm lost or I'm right

In this pacing and plotting and leaving behind.

I just can't help but see, and then can't help but smile

At these ghosts at my elbow, in the corner of my eye.

Degrees of Time Wasted

We are walking massacres,

Wading a sea of assassinated hours,

Slain unremembered, for no discernible reasons.

Whim, fancy, and animal instinct

Aren't really made for mourning.

Then, there are the hours spend on secret passions,

Misunderstood as more masochistic murder

Of little pieces of our own lives.

I would not trade those hours for anything.

Adam, Karl and Harold Were Wrong

If I had a reason, I did not write

Because I thought it was needed,

Or because I thought there was money in it;

I am not dancing fool, but a poet.

If there had been a reason,

It was not because of the tradition,

Though I may have been aware of one.

No, I wrote, hoping you would smile,

and in hope that I would see,

and if I had succeeded,

It would have been worth my while.