I saw a plastic bag dancing in the street. Human created. Nature controlled. We were the bag. A metaphor coming to life.

We were the keepers of keys. Unlocking all the doors. Opening others to new rooms. Rooms of sex. Girls, boys, and not. Mix and matching. Love happening. Rooms of drugs. Liquid, solid, and gas. Using and perusing. Forever transcending.  And other rooms too. Never ending.

Back then, we were the bag. Dancing in our street of sin.

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I would

hold your hand.

I would

sing to you.

I would

paint you if I could.

I would

tell you everything you needed to hear.

I would tell you lies

revealing the truth.

You are clean.

I am devoted.

You are right.

I am learning.

But these things don’t exist anymore.

You’re not here, not real.

You’ve left your ghost to

command me. Teach me. Train me.

I like it,

to a degree.

But I always wonder:

Will I grow hungry from starvation?

I’m only that construct, only human.

If only you were here.

I would hold your hand and sing to you.

I would paint you

if I could.

For now, the inner sea is calm, but when the moon sets the tide will come. The shore will be washed of all the grime. The sand cleansed of all but white. After the water’s rise, there will be a finer time. A moment of purity and peace. No dirt will exist near. No weed will grow for a while. There will be this slight happiness. But for now, the inner sea is calm. Waiting. Patiently. Silently. For a day to finish. And a new one to…

Too scared to sleep or bleed. Or dream or whisper. Too scared to want and need. To love and die. These things happen throughout the course. They appear, no matter what. Creep onto you all night. Follow you in the sun. You can’t rid yourself of one or another. Others try to prepare at the baby ages, but it doesn’t stay like it does now. You start to see that you can’t escape. You can’t help the thoughts of now and to come. You can’t stop the stories in your head. You can’t run. And, even when the final word appears, you can’t know what’s there. You can’t see far ahead. Only now. Only here. Only people and air and cities and buses and snakes and water and alarm clocks. Things you like and hate. Things you live with and regret. This is us. Now.

There is this urge I can’t define. Some lust, I guess. Not love, couldn’t be. It cannot be more, because all I think about is your dark skin and eyes. Your smooth curls, and well-cut smile. You cover yourself in the best way. Bright pearls. Tight tops. Shaped shorts. These things are constantly in my thoughts. But then, your words enter too. They sink into me. Help me to breathe. Show me what to see. Your body and mind come together, with the flutter of your eyes and heart. And once again… there’s an urge I can’t define.

Dry smoke rushes out your mouth. I’m surrounded and intoxicated. You look at me, notice my hesitation, and contemplate. Our plastic chairs are very near one another. You toss the paper and lean in. The plastic bends. I hold still. You’re coming closer. Reaching further. Tilting slightly. Your lips are separated and red. They press against mine. Slick, warm, tight, hard. The muscles beneath wave into me. My muscles wave back. We are touching. We are closing in. Hands begin to flow. To the ears, the hair, the neck, and chest. We hope to keep throbbing. It’s our first kiss.

Broken crayons on the floor. Puke in my lap. A bottle near the stove. My hair scraped into a sweaty ponytail. This is what I own. This is who I am. The one they yell to. The one they scream at. The one they cry for.

There’s a girl without a boy. I remember sometimes. She was one of them. None of them. She was someone else’s pain. Someone’s trap, hold, cave. Not mine, but the same. She was freedom and free. Youth and young. Me and her.

The others are just the rest. The things that come after. After youth. With age. After life. With death. Now I’m here. Without her. Without me.

Oh, god. Listen to this. Another something about poets and lyrics. Another side effect from some margin culture. Another deposit to the art stream. More pretension and bullshit. How do we handle all this? How do we survive with all the lies? Erase it, I say. Take it away. Let the truth speak their words and let the rest lie. Because wouldn’t we be a bit more at ease? If we just have honesty from the start. It’s a nice world. A nice dream. But let’s be real in this fake place. We are far from home.

There’s a book by my bed. A poem in my head. And a song playing around. Myself, I am not here. But there. In those words, verses, and lyrics. The phrases, stanzas, and bridges. That’s where I live but don’t belong. I walk through my infinity cove. See all and none. Looking for just one. One thing to solve my head and let me sleep again. Take me out of the eternal unrest and put me back in my peaceful place. Back inside. Back to where nonexistence lives. Where we all first played. Take me away from this false dilemma of songs and art. Take me back to where we all start.

I’m surrounded by books and words, loves and lovers, hates and others. There’s so much to choose from. Numerous voices. Various choices. Opinions are endless. Facts are nonexistent. So what do I take? Him, her, them, all of the above? Fuck’em. They don’t need me, and it goes the other way. We all make up our own rules. We’ll make it to the end, regardless. We’ll just keep to our path. Never see the meat and never feel the heart. It’s an infinite game. A mindless one too. Say bye to reasons, and get used to questions.