it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

Sunrise, the birds chirp outside and the realization that my heart is still beating, enlightens me.

Last night, surrounded by the darkness of my shadow, I thought the pain, tears, and darkness would eat me whole. Instead of fighting, I waited for them to devour me.

But the white roses in my dreams, suddenly became red, forcing me to open my eyes. Sunrise, what a beautiful view. I've been offered a second chance, another day to cherish my existence in search for the meaning of life. What a beautiful day.

The moon, a star, one perspective.

Both illuminate, only if I search for light.

If I was the moon, my presence would burden this world, when I'm at my darkest. But nonetheless, I enlighten the same embodiment. It's just a matter of who, when, and how I'm viewed.

As a star, I can only be gazed upon when I'm surrounded by darkness. I'm different from the moon, much unlike a fragment of a soul.

In the end, I'm always watching, yet there's nothing I can do. The moon, star, death, and life. Unless I'm searched for, my existence alone is insignificant. Unless I'm accompanied by another, all I can do is wait.

My rain is turning into hail.
You stand next to me.
Yet I can't see you.

You always inspire me.
Yet I can't hear you.

You break the heart in me.
Yet I can't feel you.

You have no name.
Yet I look for it.

Some how you always comfort me.
Yet I still need you.

You’re my invisible man.
Only God can make you appear.
Love should evaporate my fear.

Until I meet you my mind
will be on  repeat.
My heart is a drum
that can hardly beat.

Please say my hopes will
rise from concrete.
Or I shall be alive but
gradually forgotton.
I shall be an
invisible woman.