Perhaps
I'm just
Poetically
Exhausted

Everything
I've been writing lately
Has seemed the product
Of one too few cups
Of caffeinated tea

I've written a lot-
About loss,
Autumn,
Syria-
And I think
I've now used tea
As a metaphor
For just about
Everything

But what's done is done
And the seasons are always changing
And the U.S. will attack Al-Assad
No matter how many words I write
And I'll never be able to get
This ******* tea-stain
Off this ******* page
In my ******* journal
And maybe

To get through
The hopelessness
of it all
I should just
Keep writing-
It seems
To have worked
So far

Sitting on your back porch
My jaw began to hurt
Because I'd been smiling so much-
And I wondered how,
As a cold front blew through
Our dismal state and world,
We managed
To find such happiness
In one another

Sad Winter music plays
In the background of my life
As I sit in an empty doorway
Writing empty love poems
All across my skin
And I think about the potential
Tattoos I could put there
To one day look at
And see nothing

This weather
Of things slow to end
And things slow to begin
Makes me think that maybe
One day soon
These empty poems
Could have meaning again

I miss the smell
Of the cigarettes
Whose smoke danced
To the stars
Which were always
So much clearer
In your back-yard
Than anywhere else
In the city

We speculated
That it was maybe
Because your yard
Had no fence
But that wasn't it-
For now that you
And your cigarettes
Have moved,
The stars
Are no longer
So clear

Maybe
It had nothing to do
With your smoke
Or your yard-
Maybe the stars
Were only so clear there
Because you yourself
Had no fences

A couple days ago
I bought twelve cartridges of ink
For my fountain pen

"Guys," I said
A couple weeks ago,
"I'm a writer"
And you all nodded so
"No you don't get it
I don't just write things
I'm a writer"
And you all nodded so

I bought twelve cartridges of ink
For my fountain pen

At the end
The sky is cloudy.

All my friends
Have moved away
And the love of my youth
Has been lost
To a reluctantly emerging
Adulthood.

Rain threatens
But does not pour.

My three month hangover
Is finally
Subsiding
And it's at last
Being replaced
With the headache
Of an impossibly short
Autumn.

The first drops fall
Bringing a few leaves with them.

I wonder if there will be
Any green
After the storm passes-
You grab my hand tightly
And tell me "of course".

But at the end
It's hard to see the sun
Through the clouds.

Sitting at the edge
Of the dock
And looking at
The water below,
A little bit of nausia
Creeping up my throat,
I wonder how you feel
About all the lies you told
Before remembering
That it doesn't even
Really matter

(I also wonder sometimes
If you know
How many spiteful poems
I write about you
While you're laughing with me
From the next room)