this is the part
where fog makes a home before my eyes
and rain lives after a fall
through windows made
from broken beer bottles
and splintered hopes
i sit with a blanket of sorrow
and damn if it didn't grow to fit me
from the last time life threw it on my shoulders
(maybe i should call it
a keep-me-down instead of hand-me-downs)
this is not
the stereotypical poetic malaise
birthed by heartbreak
and weaned on mournful guitars and stale wine
my head doesn't feel fine
and time dances slow for others on the shore
out here
on the waters of sadness
you learn that grey is a state of mind
instead of color
the day lives only to pity you
and the night
howls as it wields whips made from your nightmares
then you wonder
what it is like
the moment after
you drown
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