The best of me,
The truisms of me,
Come in my drunken hours of surrender.
I write, text, relax my fears, worries, and understand my ownership of this sleeping world.
I smile to myself as I wink at the reflection staring at me from years ago.
Nothing is better than owing and than owning the words and phrases you give birth too.
Seasons come and go at intermittent speeds.
Winter freezes my depressing thoughts of the desires felt about the melting Spring.
Summer sweat, and a comforting knowledge that I own it regardless of the laps in the pool I choose to swim alone.
I had a story at the beginning of my evening.
Separate notebooks, pen, and brains needed to assist in their completion.
It may have been about politics, religion, or a reality show trial debacle recently poisoning my ears.
It was a story regarding clatter I was forced to bleed.
I want to be your summer Life or even lie.
I will leave that twisted story in my back pocket and save it for another night. Poetry has been mixed in my glass and to no destination I belong in these lines.
I am a sailor swimming laps of lost writing direction, and the current is strong.