Shams' Muse

is there not a single moment of joy not cut by the bitterness a sour milk taste of fear that lingers as an aftertaste you were here, then gone, giddy to come, giddy to go, and I was some inbetween place, some stopping point along your life, the happiest year of your life. it will be a year soon. two months from now. a year did i change so much? I've never eaten so much bacon, drank so much beer. But I've felt this alone, many times. I've felt this abandonned. Why did I not learn in all those years to stand on my own two feet. Or maybe I did and my natural state is just despondent and self-pitying, sad and longing. I can't remember a 24 hour stretch in the 365 days in which I was happy nonstop. But there are those that are sad. It must be some kind of gravitational pull that draws me in.

don't let go of your idealism, shams because otherwise, it's all downhill from here.

the last autumn roses are so red they are brown petals dry at the ends, waiting for winter to claim them, or a merciful soul to cut them and let them fall in place. so i worry, so i worry. everything has its season. everything. the best plants have deep roots that are trained by necessity to siphon the smallest drops from the soil. drought, after drought, and they do not die but become stronger. not this, not us, not eden.

my mind is a mess, shams, and I know that sometimes one needs to not be in one's mind. I blame many things, many things, this rage welling, this spleen expanding, this bile, this angry saliva. everyone fails me again, always again. friends are too busy with their own little children, their own little preoccupations. friends are too addicted to their own addictions. and friends just forget me. either that, or they avoid me. paranoia being a symptom of the delusions, an inability to just see a sting as a passing irritation, and instead having a full blown allergic meltdown. i hate everyone. my cat is perfect.

I will be to you, so you will be to me milder, kinder, gentler. In my power, so your power, and if I am rushed and if I am without, then that is how I am. But let me be better than I am. Let me be this. *** note from the author -- I was very inspired by a line I heard today. I think it is from the Koran or possibly from the collected sayings of Mohammad. It said "I am as my servant thinks I am." It is meant to apply to Allah. If you think Allah good and kind, so he will be with you. If you think him vengeful, so he will be with you. However, I understood more in the realm of human interaction, that the opinion of the "lowest" person one deals with, one's servant, is the true revelation of one's character. If others think me unkind, then I am unkind. I am not entirely sure if I believe that, in the Platonic sense that one must be measured against universals, not public opinion. However, in terms of encouraging people to be good to one another... No doubt, th...

creature and friend, when you jump like that, my heart halts and hangs in the air as your acrobatic endeavors send you twisting but not quite to your feet and you sit up and lick a paw, as if you meant to fall. graceless, cat, you are so graceless, but clever with words and good at trouble.

good to know i did not die yesterday good to know i'm here because there's sun and i wonder what infection is in my head that leaks through every step I take as I run slowly, slowly past Christmas decor. Accursed time moves too fast.

no tickets at least but i wonder if I leave you to long it will cost me dear

Shams, someone stole your name. I heard it in the plasma, not whispered but spoken so casually just as if there were no shame at all in this interconnectedness. Shocked again at how we braid, perhaps born of the same star cluster. That must be it. Does he even know just how long you have been with me, Shams? I am haunted by people, but not interested in drama. Sometimes I think I am carrying the seeds of a child in me, and he says to me, don't be afraid, choose whatever gives more life, not less.

every morning i would miss your hands and socks and when you kiss my eyes closed and lost in sleep, open to find time's merciless creep.

you wonder how the hell you got here

fucked the dog so they say out east can't seem to get myself to sit still for even five what the hell is wrong

plagued by the itch, it's not a crime to wonder if I waste my time, more to do of no import, a talent drained and torn for sport.

My mother told me marry a businessman Marry someone who wears a suit to work and will buy you a two thousand dollar watch for your third anniversary and doesn't buy his plates at Ikea. But I'm with the band, still, apparently, Still a kind of cool that I never realize I possess. I sit cat poised in short skirts and long boots near the merch table because the heels are killing me watching the birds fly by. Not young, but almost four lives in, not as young as these kids, whose faces are without real fatigue and who are okay with Ramen noodle breakfast, lunch, dinner for a plane ticket to South America where they will royal for a semester. I watch the goldfish, thinking of that other life when I was always with the band, and kept like a pet, sleeping on floors and curled up on bar benches, my ears ringing for days. (It wrecks your hearing, but the world is mercifully more quiet and peaceful ever after). Girls in tight jeans, tight boots, black tank top uniforms, each tattooed on t...

i am smaller than i remembered and i am shrinking fast sometimes I need your shoulders to see over obstacles over and out across the plain looking for enemies circling us Injun tribes dirty Injuns on dirty grey horses the cat knocks over a glass and I am too frail too small to get out of this please the phone is out of reach and I can fit in my own pocket I can ride on a cricket

time for wishes, i wish for you. i wish for you to say it again: i love you. no wait, i am in love with you. there's a difference, right? Shams, right? i can never remember what you say to me never remember. damned memory i'm so old. at least i heard it before it was too late.

why am i so old? knees what say you? and back? allergies dripping out of my nose out of my eyes onto my shirt because i didn't think to take a tissue. there's all this pain in me from years of waiting or just bearing up with a kind of Canadian pleasntry and my head some kind of crowded closet cluttered with no particular idea no coherency in there. does one get a day off for feeling old in the bones old in the heart old in my feet?

rise, new york, rise they say the aliens are coming today according to norad. Norad? what's that I ask. I don't know. But this I do A cat, a dog, a quiet kind of life here, a quiet kind of existence, and the taps don't drip and the shower has pressure. These are little things I care for. My life has become better than I imagined and in my film, it is ten years later and we are still kissing as if those intervening years were too boringly perfect. I'll take that now until the sea calls me again, like Odysseus away from Ithaka.

Thinking you'd write, or say something, smile, wink, nod, poke, whatever it is you do, I opened up my gmail and hoped you would appear and say anything. Your name lit up. I waited. Then it went dim. I waited. I waited. Sometimes I write our names together in the bar of the search engine. It just looks good to see them together, because, we are not.

Dear readers of Shams' Muse, It's been awhile. I know. There's no excuse for leaving off my poetry project. I am sad to have abandoned it, especially since I took a look at it and was surprised how much I liked some of my own poems. Granted, there's a lot of junk in there, poems that say nothing or are so self indulgent I want to hide them under a rock. But, all the same, I think it might be a good idea to revitalize this as a creative outlet. Rachel

I can eat everything and with what little sun is left give me those years.

Please do not let me melt in the sun before I have some water.

it was hot and i said i would melt in the weather like this and I drank water. the space there is filled with a sound of you saying this to me. the space between us is still all me, because you are still me.

am I too fast, or you too slow? I wait for you all the time, watching the plants grow, watching the city as I run, watching the water boil to cook mixed vegetables. Have you thought about me in these minutes between the last time and the next? Is there enough space for you to put your feet on one, your hands on the other, and push them apart and stretch your presence into thoughts of me. Seems like I'm always waiting for you to appear, for your name to appear beyond my imagination, to flash on the screen and for you to say Hello and say, I've been thinking about you. Those words would water the desert and make it bloom with white flowers.

make no mistake so much. just think those words, think those words for me. i will burst.

On a bench, he lies prone, a mound of flesh oozing out between the crack of his shirt, the crack of his pants. her arm is a tattoo colorful like a nuclear sunset, she spits at some point past his feet and says, "That's disgusting."

Sometimes I look down and think just how much I love a daisy.

a kind of tiredness becomes a part of me past a certain age.

I am wearing your sweatshirt, spring is unforgiving after the bars close and I lounged on your bed, leafing through one of your books by a popular Japanese author. You twitch in your sleep, first a hand, then a foot. Can a foot twitch? Malfunctions in your brain. I can not recall. I am afraid to look it up on google afraid you are destined. not even if you fill the pockets of this sweatshirt with stones and sink to the bottom of the river. I will hold your hand underwater. In the next you can be my child, my parent, my friend, my mentor, my neighbor. But you first, you can decide.

happiness is a practice and I am not doing so well these days my mind is not so well these days my heart is not so well these days, i can't claw my way out of this, can't stop kicking you can't stop from this fear this neverending fear that acid bathes my interior life. I would like someone so gentle, so considerate, so mild and then I think maybe then, maybe then, maybe at that point I will stop with this practice of fear. my stomach hurts from not eating. it's been what... 12 hours? please. you only need to breathe so i know you are there.

Happiness is a practice and I have neglected you and find myself drifting through these spaces with my hands knotted together, tightening and loosening, drifting and plummeting. You hold from me all your secrets, all your words, hiding them in stones and signs that I can not decipher even if I were literate. What do you want from me? I can not find you in my mind, cannot hold you to me in my breath, and so I feel so very alone together. Take me now, take my hands and lay yourself down in the mud before me and let me cross on your back to a higher heaven.

Let me not melt like this and find myself no longer me but you, as though returning to my very origins, carved off from your rib. I would halt this process and yank on a cord to let myself be me. But there are such strong forces in natures, so much greater than those that I master. I am nothing in this wind.

it just so happens that bad mood and anxiety are contagious. seule tout seule et je m'inquiette, je contemplate until I am sick.

i could thank you for bringing me here, even if you hate me. I think of you sometimes and wonder where you are, and why we don't talk. I think of you often and wonder where you are, and why we don't talk. My life is a garden and I am in love and it is because of you, in spite of you. you only ever existed in my mind.

Jacob said to me, "Rid yourselves of the alien gods," and we cried and we wept for them.

where he left off in so many ways a double.

Genesis 34.1-31 What violence to you, Shechem, in your own bed, slaughtered and tricked, the blood still running fresh between your legs. A bride price indeed, worth a nation of men, was she not, the dark eyed Dinah, who you fell upon in the fields beside a well. Corpses lay across one another entwined, contorted and screaming, the blood still running fresh between their legs, still running even after death in growing pools that the rain beat back to the dust. My shame, to my shame a genocide for a woman raped, a woman seized by harpy fingers, jewels thick on the knuckles that bit into her skin and welted red as she wept home in ripped dress, blood running down her leg, scratched by brambles, by thorns, dirtied and stinking from violation. Though Jacob shook, heads bowed, the old yield to the young, as this is no country for old men. Jacob slept and dreamed of his new cattle, his new people and the land shared between them. While he slept, swords in hand, Jacob's sons took your lif...

Genesis 29.9-20 "And when Jacob saw Rachel, daughter of his uncle Laban, and the flock of his uncle Laban, Jacob went up and rolled the stone off the mouth of the well, and watered the flock of his uncle Laban. Then Jacob kissed Rachel and broke into tears... So Jacob served seven years for Rachel and they seemed to him but a few days because of his love for her." Tending sheep is not such hard work, lead them to graze and keep watch against wolves and birds of prey, birth them, and shear them. The only troubles are neighbors. Sometimes they steel your sheep, sometimes you theirs. That is the way of things in the land of Haran. Day in day out, arguing over sheep, voices rising over tinkling bells and the songs of birds that bathe in the dust beside the well. Singing songs of my family, cresting the hills with the flocks, with a dog. So my days go. Rachel, she comes to me with cheese and bread. Rachel, she comes to me, we lie in the fields and look up into the heavens, and sev...

Favorite Places in Montreal #1 Castro VC is incessant in this city receding into the brick from the shouts of schoolyard children, surfacing on the cement of an overpass, only to porpoise beneath a poster for Jean Le Loup’s two night stand at Club Soda. The tags of the city are Sirens I walk past them huddled in doorways, seizing the long strands of my hair, ivying their arrows around my ankles. He took me to the secret place beneath the highway, mattresses pushed against the pillars and piles of rags, empty cans of spray paint and names upon names. Generations of names. I learned the tags like I learned the constellations, So the stars would not be a disorganized scatter across the sky. Each one now a story, a myth. I came back and sat on the cement blocks, sat and waited, sat and sat. This desolate patch grew flowers, lived but a few days and I was the only one to see the blooms. (This is in response to a HomeRun challenge to write a poem about one's favorite place in Montreal....

"Lot, who went with Abram, also had flocks and herds and tents, so that the land could not support them staying together; for their possessions were so great that they could not remain together. And there was quarreling between the herdsmen of Abram's cattle and those of Lot's cattle. -- The Canaanites and Perizzites were then dwelling in the land. -- Abram said to Lot, 'Let there be no strife between you and me, between my herdsmen and yours, for we are kinsmen. Is not the whole land before you? Let us separate: if you go north, I will go south; and if you go south, I will go north'" Genesis 13.5-9 Brotherly love, a guise for brotherly hate, No love lost between, No generosity of two, of duos, in this hateful, hot land, between tents. The wiser brother struck first, an act of deceptive acquiescence, with gold bracelets tattooed to his wrist and arms, his stomach thrust before him, grown fat and round with meals of wine and meals of meats, his shepherd's c...

not so good, not so bad, days like this I should be glad even if no named affection, I am certain of this direction.

Genesis 21.7 "Who would have said to Abraham, That Sarah would suckle chldren! Yet i have borne a son in his old age." Sarah laughed, as she sometimes did, at such a silly proposition. Far less that she should have a son than that her husband, now shriveled and old, should be able to rise to this occasion, even less he should make an emission that could hit an internal star. No, now his bones that poked through in places in jagged ridges dry and brown with sun. His flesh hung from his shoulders, pulled down to the ground in paper thin rolls that pooled in the belly and over his hips All hung down, lower than in youth, lower than in his prime, low as though crying out to return to the dust from whence it came. Sarah could only laugh that this shuffle footed man with Arabic black eyes and white brows that met his white beard, that stood on the roadway, cane in hand, forgetting he had taken three steps before and three more to go, would feel the sap of spring and rise like the...

The April poetry project is taking a religious bent. I want to read the Tanakh (aka, the Old Testament or the Hebrew Bible) and write a poem a day inspired by this work of poetry-law-history. It is pretty fascinating stuff and I am rather surprised by what is in there sometimes. Take the brief story of Babel that I read yesterday. I'd always thought the story was about hubris, but when I read it this time, I was rather surprised by the fact that God was just afraid. Weird. People were harmonized, in cooperation, and he was worried about what they could accomplish. There's a Smith's song that goes, "If you think peace is a common goal, that goes to show how little you know." Anyway, always a good read, and I think a series of mediocre poems are a very fine way to process the text.

What a raw deal for those men in Babel. To have aimed for the stars and as one built a brick tower so high, it frightened the Lord. The Lord confounded their speech. He scattered them. The tower was unbuilt on the land, a blight, an eyesore, massive and semi soft, impotent to its majesty. All who passed it said, "Men who aim too high fail," which is not the truth. Men did not fail, but there were other forces at work, the same forces that have brought down many a man and reduced him to a mere shadow\ of his former self. This is the doing of the Lord, who knew that harmony would make people slack and lazy. I can not believe he did not like peace.

spring's here and my heart is nervous at all these flowers pushing their way up into the world through winter's last hurrah.

its raining march rains in cold wet drops and i can dance on the grass and the buds on the bushes are begging to open.

so much for love poems, Shams, seems I've got a crisis on my hands, my lover, he doesn't love me anymore. if that's not a crisis, I don't know what is? like a tiny little berry in my goddess hands, unintentionally, i think i know what the end looks like because i've seen it so many times. It looks like this. and I just refuse to open my eyes and see it. wasn't i just saying how boring my life had become only yesterday?

spring is replete with people who return from distant places of my past. Some, I am so happy to see.

i dared think that i am and closed my eyes waiting for a blow that never came. i opened one eye, then the other, and you were still there, smiling at me and smiling.

he said to me many years ago, I'd be narcissus I dreamed I said if I could make love to your ego.

This month, I've decided to try and write a love poem a day. So often, I write about tragic love, painful love, love gone horribly wrong. But, some of the best poetry is about love gone right and the meeting of minds, etc. I figure for March, with a bit of inspiration, some love poems are in order.

dearest, my dearest, I only write anti-love poems, but for you, I will make an exception. I mostly fear you will read this and say it did not measure up to what you were expecting, and that I was not the writer you hoped I would be, and for this, you reject me. the greater the cracks in my cement open up to swallow the birds from the sky. There is no end to this and so no end to my loss if you decide (for i will never decide). I hope that you love me more even if the words never touch the air in a puff of winter breath, and your hand never finds mine, mitten in mitten.

i am still dreaming and my brain is oozing out of my skull at a point between my eyes, and onto the desk. he left this behind and all I can do is hold it while I sleep and breathe in the scent of detergent not my own. can a sentiment last a lifetime? i can only whisper these things to what scrap i hold in my arms. why have i been so beaten down that i am afraid to stand taller than the pines?

Shams, there is in me a terrible badness, a demon, clawing its way through my skin, and I have to fight or it will own me for a time and I will do terrible things, things that will hurt people I love because I can. This demon cares nothing for you, cares nothing for me, cares for nothing, but to rage and destroy carefully built houses, kicking down the beams, setting fire to the timbers and dancing in the smoldering remains with his violin as he dances and I cry. My demon feeds on my fears and grows strong when they increase, making great feasts and smacking the very bones with his lips as fat and blood drips off them onto his pot belly. If I could starve him from the source, choke him with my own hands and hold him down with a will and a certainty until he stops moving, perhaps then he will give me some rest.

i climbed up some mountain you see, and i'd been struggling for a long time on this one as mountains can be like that. i'd been struggling across the sea and then I found I was suddenly there with almost no effort (surely there was effort, but I'd forgotten how many boulders I'd tripped over). And when I was there, I thought the view would be better somehow or no, that somehow I would be changed, that I would be something more than the sum of my parts, a person who'd climbed. I felt sort of ordinary, as though what I really wanted was just to be like everyone else and I wasn't really sure why I wanted that so badly. It wasn't anything to be ordinary short of boring and I was boring and I am probably going under again.

the test of patience even if I hold you in trust hold me in trust a million times I want to say to the stars at night where are you?

medea killed her children to break your heart. i still don't know why people identify with her.

i dreamed the dream of the house, Shams, the inside of my house, which is in fact an apartment. the interior had grown dilapidated and was falling apart from a fungus that climbed up the walls black and fierce, pushing the drywall from the inside out, pieces of plaster falling like large snowflakes.

I am writing a love story about myself, Shams, and I am the protagonist, or one of them. Only we don't say that kind of thing, can't call it a love story, because he's too cool for all that, too cool for me, too cool to tell me that he has me in his eternity just in case he needs to break in case of emergency. Boys are careful like that. In my storym he is carving my name into his blood, rearranging his DNA, the plasma, so that it buzzes in my presence, sends chemicals in a flood at just the simple thought of me. And he can't stop that, can't stop this urgency for me, this scent in all things that is me-ness. Love is such a forceful demoness, and she has him pinned even if he struggles against it. My story is more about a silly man. In front of my eyes, he puffs himself up and struts, so that my heart beats, not because I think he is great but because he frightens me, with this threat of this callous indifference towards a hundred different faces and people, a smal...

damn you, damn you, damn you. Again, I prove again that I am an incompetent idiot, incapable of taking care of myself in any meaningful way wahtsoever. I've lost my metro pass yet again, or for the first time really. But I've lost things more valuable than this, and every single time, I am ashamed.

one day, shams, I can write a love poem a happy poem, a poem that i know is merited by the one it describes because he loves me so much more than I love him. Isn't that the way of things for women? nothing works until a man is consumed with desire, consumed with the sickness that life is meaningless without? He wakes up and holds me in his mind, a virus of the blood that has changed the very plasma of his cells. There is no day without me. The other dimensions are so small, I could hold them in the palm of my hand, and yet my eyes don't see them in front of me here, right at the end of my breath.

love's arrows are such barbs in my hind and i'm scratching at the welts they give me tearing at bolts of flesh to get some poison and i'll suck down on this raw, red wound gaping and winking at me, on my arms. I hate this disaster. I hate it, I hate it. And the disaster is that you will not go. You will not.

the degree of anxiety is high.

you know how these things go, Shams. Easy come, easy go. So it always is for me. But if the story is over with one, so it will begin with another. From where I sit, it seems so dreadful to have nothing to sing about. Though I wonder, Shams, if I am just lying to myself.

i am watching this paper on the ground out the window as it creeps along a crack in the wind, listening to someone talk to me and i'm not even here and he's trying to impress me or reach me, but i'm in no mood for this kind of thing anymore i'm tired today i'm tired with all you people. leave me alone already. i crave the silence of my own house, and not talking, not listening.

where are you, Shams? My head is full of songs.

in my languid moments, like now, now that I am tired and frustrated, I would like to lay down my head in your lap and look into your eyes. and you could tell me, don't worry, i'm here. You can brush my hair back with your hand and say don't worry, i'm here.

Agamemnon, full of heart, is always confused by Menelaos, his sword bearing brother with full beard and big laugh, drinking from a horn, and drinking with the men, playing cards and telling stories until all hours of the night. If Menelaos were not his brother, he could understand why Helen left with a younger man, a knockout like her married to an uncomplicated man like Menelaos. It never could work. Helen might have liked Menelaos rugged good looks and his rustic ease. He never cheated or lied, but quite probably never felt so strongly that he needed to. Though agamemnon... Agamemnon had more pain in his days, and didn't (this is a good one, again, a start of one. I will work on it)

my hands are so cold

is it so terrible that I fall in love so easily, and am seduced by the smallest thing? I am no challenge for a wizard to catch. Ah, but to keep me, that is hard. What binds they think hold me drop from my hands like those of Dionysus and I walk out the door, naked and radiant, a smile on my face. My only love is for you and your divinity. None else shall keep me.

i heard a story today about a woman who had never dumped anyone in her life. She had always received and never gave, a vessel for the unfulfilled dreams of others, this pitcher that can't be tipped over. I think these things collect inside you and they flow out, like honey nectar down through your limbs and make them slack and placid, worn and eroded. I also heard a story today about a woman who had always dumped others. She had shot arrows and jumped hurdles, watched tears and did not move, did not stir, but steeled herself against onslaughts of desperation and pain, turning cold, freezing everything so nothing could get in, shutting the doors, one at a time, and bolting them down. For every dumper, there is a dumpee. At one point joined and one.

Shams, dearest, I think I did it again, spent time imagining this future, this fantastic future in which I could be more than myself, and reality aligned precisely to a vision I had of how things should be. And I was so delighted that there was someone whose physical self could be occupy that space. I had a voice, a body, a face, a name. Then imaginings must be laid aside and reality is what reality is. And reality seems so difficult.

for too long, Shams, I was swimming with under toe pulling me down, my lungs bursting with saltwater, get me out of this little tank, struggling and fighting, knowing I had one hand on the life preserver, the other on the tank's edge. Kicking and beating and fighting so hard, when it was as simple as breathing, as simple as breathing, as simple as breathing. He came and offered me a plush towel, a pair of wooden bath slippers, and even if that was all he ever did for me, I am so grateful, on my knees.

its funny the way we women are so at the mercy of these things and so much life gets lived in the space between those anticipated phone calls. Then again, the vigil in my life only lasts so long before I don't care any longer about you and your phone call. At least I get the house clean, the plants watered, the dog walked, the novel written, the run in, the yoga practiced, the lecture prepped, the book read, the friends visited, the good cheer spread, the shopping done, and all of those things that sometimes seem as though they are done simply to fill the space between those phone calls. Oh its just you. You were not who I was thinking of anymore. **** note to self -- this is a good one in the making, revisit in the future.

the more i change, Shams, the more really the names just change and I am not really changing anymore. It's all that special relativity shit. Shams, friend, Shams, we have got to get our life together and stop this shilly shallying around, this indefinitive messing. Some dull dreary parade of emails and phonecalls and waiting around for something. I'm so sick of people who don't take me seriously. I'm so sick of people who don't take things seriously. I'm so sick of people who don't take themselves seriously. If we don't matter, what does, Shams, can't you tell me? It's Friday night and I have everything and nothing to do.

maybe being a teacher is not what i should have been but nothing is so good for my ego as meriting the respect of the next generation because I give to them and they give back.

leaky roof in my cavernous house the cavernous house in my dreams can't stop this trickle... nay... flood. I get so overwhelmed by you.

on one hand, I want to be the girl who goes with the flow who takes what hand she is dealt and just goes along for the ride, ride her til she bucks ya, all smiles and sunshine and if it rains tomorrow, don't fret. on the other hand, I want to be the girl who makes a difinitive statement about myself, carving and extracting, constructing myself like a bower bird builds its nest, eschewing what is wrong with deliberate incision. Both are gardens of beauty and surprise, and I am ever torn because I can't have both, can't be both.

working itself out, this thing, this life of mine, and resist or fight, flow or fly, it's working itself out.

8:30 in Lionel Groulx metro and thank you dear God the Dunkin Donuts is always fresh, always open. I haven't eaten in hours, and I don't usually eat donuts and the woman slides the door for me, do it yourself. Oh, I do it myself. I take the chef's special, brown frosting with a white rosette, stuffed with cream in its yellow food dye pastry, but still hot. This is going to make a good mess. I eat that donut up the escalators, up the stairs, out to the street. I eat the donut, and think, if this were a movie, now, I would be having an epiphany.

I am living under the influence and I think I'm about to get pulled over again. There's only so long I can get by before someone calls the authorities about my reckless emotional living.

i dreamed of you i dreamed you drew picture and then in real life i was so close to you i could and i wanted to send you some kind of message of that

I fear your death more each day as you get older and older. You wheeze. Did you wheeze before? I want to think you've been snoring like this forever, curled at my feet, but I seem to recall you were not so tired, my friend, not so malfunctioning. If you die, die in my arms, die while I am home, die so that I know I was there for your transition, and could walk you to the other side as far as I could go. You'll meet me there again, one day. When it is my turn to walk, you will wait for me I think, just as you wait for me every day to come home.

i am too much like too many people who are cold blooded, and I like being cold blooded. I'd sometimes give anything to be calculating like that, methodical like that, and not care at all about such stupid things

it wasn't a lack of feeling, and so you left me reeling. sometimes I still think of you and sometimes.