"I don't know", I always say.
" Do you know ANYTHING??"
"Yes. I don't remember the sound of my mother's voice".
This is truth.

When did it come to this?
Too many can say it was sudden  
But I know, I know...

Can this be all there is?
Wake up, eat, talk then sleep
They know, they know...

Why do they lie to themselves?
Smile, lie, confusion and frustration surround them
Nobody knows, nobody knows...

I'm pretty sure all poetry has left me.
As if it just packed up and hit the road.
Like my words no longer dance or sing.
Like they have forgotten all melodies.
Assimilated tone deafness.
Compound letdowns retract vulnerabilities.
Brick walls and leather skin replace possibilities.
Reckless love and whimsical fantasies,
Replaced by ***** diapers and piles of laundry.
Consonants and vowels blend to mush.
Aches and accomplishments are one in the same.
All of my agony has turned to apathy,
And I wonder.
How could I let poetry walk away from me?
How have I become so broken that I can no longer write?
Words have no ability to woe me.
Vocabulary is no longer my saving grace.
Void of creativity.
Like somehow life has gotten too messy for me to express.
Series of catastrophes and celebrations run together.
And I feel lost.
And I feel blessed.
But oh so empty.
Poetry come back to me.

I am a mash-up of mishaps, strange facts and movie quotes.
A cacophony of cool dancing tin hats,
and concerned-looking men,
watching in white lab coats.

I am the hungry seagull searching for salmon,
dodging waves and annoyingly landing on ferry boats.
Dropping gifts to the sunbathers by the  shore,
they never seem to appreciate.
Until they do, I will just drop more.

I am the spinning cactus made of rock.
I am the wealthy, rich millionaire
who sleeps in cheap hotels
and wears odd socks.

You are the last bit of toothpaste
you squeeze out of the tube
before throwing it away.
I haven't brushed my teeth all week.
What more can I say?

I am the broken toy tossed under the bed.
I am the breaking glass, the slamming door,
the words misquoted, misused,
and more than often misread.

I am the one who bites off
more than they can chew.
I am the one who tries and
tries and
tries
to
forget you,
but can never quite seem to.

I am the one who stays up late
sometimes,
to ponder, wonder,
and write these confused, riddled rhymes.

Today is Sunday,
and yet it's already tomorrow.
In my mind, there is no time:
But there is sorrow,
and bursts of joy
and glimpses of hope
and snippets of happiness
and times where I cope,
but most of the time?
Nope.

But today is alright.

I've got about forty-two more rides to take,
before I'm 42.
To be exact,
I'll extract four more strains of sap
from two different kinds of trees.
Grind them up with twigs and leaves
to leave me heavy in a state between wake and sleep.
There's a 4:2 ratio of diseased to clean blood running through my veins.
(Contemplate a number long enough, and you're bound to go insane.)
I've got forty two thousand hundred million neurons currently exploding in my brain.
They're all dying in vain for the sake to explain a simple number.
Before the two of us met,
I had the fortitude to remember to forget too.
Every memory of our quartet centered around me and you.  
Four score and two billion years ago
was 68 billion years before the universe was born.
4 + 2 = 6. Four times two is eight.
I've stained the floor with two different shades of paint.
Isn't it lovely?
Ain't it great?
I'll wait for two signals before I wave my two hands in the air.
I've got four fingers on each,
and two thumbs to get me there.