breakeven (n.)

the point at which cost and income are equal and there is neither profit nor loss; also :  a financial result reflecting neither profit nor loss

Maybe if I tell myself
I don't need you
Enough times
You will disappear
From my trapped mind

And that will be my down

                                                 fall

Silent now the television
Silent now the telephone
Silently I sit here,
Silent and alone.

I’m not sure why the poems
Are much harder now to write
Not sure why the sleep
Comes harder every night
Not sure if all the trials in life
Are harder now to take
I’m not sure that when the morning comes
That I will even wake.

If I was asked to take a risk
Not sure that I would dare
I’m not sure if I was dying
Anyone would care
Not sure that Heaven waits for me
Behind the pure white Pearly Gate
If I asked for fifteen minutes more
Not sure the Reaper-man would wait.

I’m not sure if my mistakes in life
Outweigh any good
Not even sure that honestly
I’ve done the best I could
Not sure when folks remember me
If they will grimace, or they’ll grin
Not sure official scorekeepers
Would vote my life a win.

Not sure if I have lived before
Not sure if there’s a second chance
Not even sure with lessons
I could learn to dance this dance
The world makes me dizzy
The carousel spins too fast.
Not sure my horse could win the derby
The brass ring might have already passed.
But I'm not sure.

Silently I sit here.

PwL 6/16/15

I only loved your presence
I didn't love you

Or maybe

I did fall in love with you
And I think I miss your presence

But maybe

I still  love you
And I miss everything about you

I have to stop lying to myself

I love you
I really do

And maybe

You feel the same way too

she does not taste like you

she tastes bitter with anger
and she’ll never say she loves me

but something about the way she kisses me
makes me think it’ll be okay

I’m a liar.
I want you back

I want your tired eyes and your smudged makeup

I want your shaky hands and even shakier voice
to keep telling me you love me

I want you back
**** I want you back

And this isn’t some sad love poem about how I still love you
I don’t

But out of all of my mistakes, you’re still my favorite

My heart bleeds poetry, the way your wrists bleed blood
And so I bled, as my world fell into the mud
Yet I bleed not now, for neither do you,
and you don't care, so you're not going to.
But let it not be said, that I did not try,
I just can't bleed poetry, with a muse that's gone dry