When you no longer want the life you’ve built for yourself?

Where do you hide?

Each flicker of the heart
        Is one less before death
Each time you exhale--
        One less living breath
Potential becomes reality
        The candle drips in flame
And though it burns the bloodshot eyes
        They are both the same

Each flicker

    Each breath

Running wax the candlestick
Feet flailing forward, fleeing fast
Flickers bicker tock and tick
Drip drip down the candlestick,
Running down the sheer sides, slick
With the immolating wick
to fire

Running from the past
So sprinting towards the future
Running through the blur of now
Running out of time

Out of breath
Out of flickers
Hear is

Approaching an island
Of unknown rocks
And rearing cliffs,
I am Ulysses,
Anticipating the next terror.

My ship cleaves
The running waves,
Dipping long and deep
Into foam at leeward,
While above me
Curves the white canvas.

It seems forever
That I have stood
Alone at the helm,
On this sloping deck,
Feeling the great, grey rollers
Slide below me,
And the cold wet wind at my back.

I watch the waves,
The ship,
The approach of the unknown shore,
No Sirens can distract me,
I am bound to this voyage.

Strong emotionally and physically; while it is strong in flavor
A mug of coffee wakes one up; yet you’re the smile in the cup
You’re the feeling a child gets when handed a party favor
Caffeine is soon to crash but yet you liven up

One thousand cups can’t wake me up the way that you can
A Rosetta painted in the milk can’t compare to the beauty of you
Full of life and full of color; coffee is only black or tan
Even when the *** is empty you never bid adieu

Though black coffee is dark, it’s not as dark and mysterious as you
More life is given from your laugh than all the caffeine in the carafe
You’re the superior flavor no matter the way I brew
Your heart holds all the power; the complete opposite of decaf

Out of everyone in the world, you’re the one I adore
As for the coffee, I’m already brewing more.

Some days the trees outside my bedroom window glow a youthful green
And spread pale yellow petals across the dry earth.

Some days the trees are dull and gray.

When a thin red string pulls our bodies close
And our breathing keeps a beat,
I know that I am me
And I know that I am here.

But most of the time it feels as though my story was written in third person.

Just before the sun rises, I want to beat him to it.
I want to clamber over the mountain top and illuminate my beautiful Sonoran,
Stroke the backs of lizards who await my warmth
And kiss the skin of sleepy girls.

Instead my bones crack under the weight of my thoughts, layering on like humiliating harmonies.

Sometimes the trees are gray for weeks.
I wonder if they’ve died,
And I wonder if it hurt.
Every morning I separate the curtains to check if they are yellow again.
I check every morning and I wait for the yellow days to come
Because I think there is also someone who checks on me.

Everything a person can do creates a thought,
a car that runs through a persons mind when they are
trying to sleep, but they can't.
But, with a poet,
a thought isn't a car.
A thought is a wave of water,
it's a dunk tank at a carnival
and everyone has perfect aim.
It's a soft touch on cold skin,
one that feels like a lost lover.

And when a poet writes,
and a thought is used,
it lives forever.