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At work, I sit with people as they sign
their Last Wills and Testament. Part of my job
is to smile at them, make them feel comfortable
while they contemplate their mortality. I talk
to them about their summer plans, and
enthusiastically say yes when they are instructed
to ask me to be their witness.
If they tell me that they no longer speak with
their daughter, I simply acknowledge how
families are not all the same.

I find Wills to be strange poems, a collection
of moments. Some time after my brother-in-law
passed away, I found a small bottle of Cherry Coke Zero
he left in my fridge, and I was not able to dispose of it. My son
asked if I could leave it to him in my Will,
and I imagined all the wonderful things I could
specifically bequest to him:
the bottle of Cherry Coke Zero from Uncle Joey,
my beaded bracelets he already steals,
the incense he always asks me to burn that’s kept
in the strange armoire in the living room
which was left there by the previous owners–

but I wouldn’t need to, as he is my one and only,
and everything will fall to him anyway.
All I need to leave for him is
permission to throw it all away.

Counting the days lost to grief. Counting the teeth
falling from my face. Disgraced
for what they couldn’t clench, disgusted
by the stench of the rot in the sockets underneath.
Disappointments dig in deep.
Roots rummaging through nerves
unnerved by uprooting
constantly shooting this catch-22 pain
through my veins from one end to the other,
only stopping to hover my heart. Only stopping
to distort my sight. Figments hold light
but mirages are known for misadvising,
disguising truth in fantasy, still,
sometimes I let them lie to me, sometimes
it’s the only life that seems to be living.
Sometimes
I have to stop swallowing
doses of indifference, for just a few minutes.
For just a few minutes,
I have to forget the days
lost to grief before I lose my belief
in the possibility of days without it.

I wonder if ghosts get older. If they get a glimpse of a life that waited for them if they kept breathing a little longer. & I try to picture that life as they visit us on those long winter nights when the furnace struggles to heat this hundred & twenty year old house & we remember all we’ve lost that once was as real as the dog laying on my lap right now.

In sixth grade I hung out with my friend Matt when he was able & never spoke of his hairless head or the time he had left. & I tried to find an answer, a satisfying explanation, for what I knew, even at eleven years old, was not fair. & it wasn’t fair when I went to his funeral—divine providence couldn’t assuage the numbness in my chest. I think I knew then that this is all there is.

But on my best days I hope a place beyond this one exists for the sake of reunions
to see Matt again & tell him the story of the life that could have been
to see my Grandmother again & tell her that I tried to make her proud
to see Dia again & let her know that so many of us are better because of her
to see Kelly hug Josh again & laugh about those near misses we’ve all had
to see Schiz again & tell him he deserved better than what we had to give
to see Mr. Davis again & thank him for giving us a safe place to grow
to see Paula & Cindy & Nanna & Robert & Paul B. & Gene & Jannette & Chris & even Ken &
Zach H. & Zach T. & Laura & Stephanie & Jessica & Jack & Aubrey & Scott M. & Matt E. &
Amanda & Ian & Mark & Joseph & Bonnie Jean & Ed & Donna & Sue & Regina &

& I never planned to live this long so I hope the ghosts of my loved ones haunt me as I remember all the reasons I’m not dead yet. & today I am thankful I’ve survived myself for as long as I have, to build them a monument to a world worth living in.

I fear I might know it,
Before my cold fingers even touch the parchment.
Long before my ink pens were the only
portal to contentment as an outlet to get through
these idyllic cycles.

even in euphoric guilt-ridden sleep,
It is your face I see
And all the unanswered questions come back to me.
I feel like a child,
Sitting on my assigned carpet tile
Hand reaching for the ceiling as if
that will help you to pick my vile smile.

You found me in the midst of
Rebuilding my humble home.
Shattered brick and
Fresh catacombs.
You taught me how to heal,
Just so you could be the one to give the finishing blow.

Shaking hands and catching breaths.
old paint water and blank canvases.
Sacred texts filled with metaphorical deaths.
Crediting your faithless name in works cited,
For research papers about a time I was so close to getting everything I wanted.

So close,
But never quite there.

My hopeless ghost
Stood on shaking bones
And walked to the mic,
The screech of the speaker,
The cringe of the viewers.
The words died like our souls did,
Lips forgot about every poem
I ever directed.

Immortal insanity,
Sentenced to a life without the living.
The worst curse is the trap of not knowing,
And being labeled as forgiving.

learning to play piano,
But always being off key.
You being the star of my scenes,
But knowing you never think of me.

This disappointment,
These cruel and time-consuming cycles,
The grudge i hold with a grip as tight as vices

Halfway to heartbreak,
But then you took the wheel,
The aftermath of the crash
Is my reality here.

the credits have been rolling for a year now
“Foolish girl” is what I lose my nomination for
But you, low-down respectable guy
Win the Oscar and don’t mention me in the speech.

Pages of scratch paper,
Filled with nonsense diction
Of the things I waste time reminiscing.
Perhaps if I wasn’t addicted to fiction-
Perhaps I wouldn’t miss him.

Struck by the curse at birth,
Searching for true loves kiss
That doesn’t exist
I’m a realist stuck in the body of a hopeless romantic.

As the professor reads my conclusion,
My aching bones begin to sway
And the hill I climb begins to look like an illusion,
I wonder if anyone will ever stay?

Park bench on the storm’s edge, one foot in the rain. Washing these filthy boots clean of everywhere they’ve walked so far. I breathe in the downpour. Breathe deeply. I’ve always felt you closer in a shower. Maybe because I feel cleaner, or because I need the reminder that you weep too. And I need to be near you.

And I’m not thinking about my wet clothes, or how cold the car’s AC will feel later. I’m not thinking about the growing dark, or the receding shadows. The glow of the lights; ours and yours. Ours strung across the trees; yours strung across the sky. The soft glimmer we imitate; the divine clash you speak through the heavens. And the bridge between the two awash in glow.

The pink of hidden dusk. The grey-blue of a steady trickle. The green of growing earth. The yellow of holiday lights. The white of thunder bellow. The colors of kindred spirits.

December feels like
June. And June feels like change.
And change feels like You.

I cast all hope away, swore never again,
Happy to feel love amongst family and friends.
Romance wasn’t meant for me, I’m better off alone,
I’ll never feel again, my heart as hard as stone.

Along you came with those big brown eyes,
Swept me off my feet, took me by surprise.
The protective wall I forged crumbled into dust,
Allowing me to shine again, teaching me to trust.

You pulled me out of solitude, disturbed my sad slumber,
Restored my faith, gave me hope and it truly is a wonder.
Only God knows the future and what we may come to be,
How beautiful to dream in colour of all the possibilities.

I have no regrets, try as my overthinking might,
Your very presence has taken me from darkness to light.
No matter if we fall in love or this has no potential,
You made me feel alive again, I am forever grateful.

The last day he felt like himself,
he asked me to get coffee.
Just the two of us.

I chose a boy
whose name
still burns like static
at the back of my throat.

While he sat in a coffee shop
quiet in that hollow way
only the dying get
thinking the kind of things
no one says
until there’s no one left to hear,

I was somewhere else,
wasting time
on someone
already erased.

He wanted to spend
what little time he had left
with me
his daughter.

I didn’t know
it would be the last time.
That it would echo
louder in silence
than it ever did in sound.

I wish I had known
the kind of goodbye
that doesn’t come back.

I don’t know
if I’ll ever
forgive myself
for mistaking a ghost
for something worth keeping.

For answering my father
with silence.
For letting his last request
rot next to a name
I won’t even speak.

Call me weird, suspect, out-of-touch. Talk about how pathetic i must be when i send you unsolicited messages through social media. i don’t blame you. Ignore me, as you will. Tell your friends how desperate i must be. Warn people to stay away because talking to me is like feeding a stray dog. i’m not mad at you.

You’ve never walked in my shoes. And i’m glad for that.

Once, i saw a young lady, early twenties i would guess. She had a scar. The scar reached from ear to ear. Around her throat. She was on suicide watch. And i wondered, How bad can it be? How bad can it possibly get?

So i reach out, as only i know to. Reach out by the available means. Reach out to people more connected than any in history. Where access to each other is as close as buttons on a keyboard. But nobody is there.

So i think of the young lady and her scar. And i feel pain, because i wasn’t there.

Once, i saw a man, mid-thirties i would guess. He had no legs. He had no arms. He was placed on a motorized cart and left out in the desert heat, to beg for change. But he never spoke. Never opened his eyes. i walked by him daily, as did thousands of others. i never put change in his jar or spoke to him. Nobody did. He made us uncomfortable, so we looked away. We looked down or up or at anything but him.

So i think of this man. And i am sad, because i looked at everything but him. It’s okay to make fun of me. To laugh and warn others about my desperation. i don’t blame you and i’m not mad. But please don’t hurt the next person. They aren’t as strong. As stubborn. Don’t look down or up or anywhere but in their eyes. Sometimes, that’s all they need.

So i reach out to save my life. And that’s not your concern. Not that it matters, but i’ll be okay. i’ll be okay because of that young lady on suicide watch and that man in the desert. i’ll be okay because i want to give their suffering meaning. i reach out to save somebody else.

So i reach out because you are not alone. Because you should know that if i can be okay, you can too. Because whoever you are… i’m there. Because i’ll look at you and nothing else. I love You. And You are important.
And keep reaching out, no matter what they say about You.

The End

There is nothing to discuss – there was no country.
A nation is equivalent to paper weight.
Everything goes into dark and rise into dew.
Magneting soils instead irons – the true nature of chemistry impotence.
Lying in state of emergency and doom.
Surely, forwardness is a lacking merit.
Attempts to nullifies dust brings empty ground.
And, squaring manners of unfortunates.
Yet, everything flows like honey,
And everything lessons go down against her days and hurt the holder more.
Excruciatingly endowed with matter of time and lost,
The nation is highly fruitful and appreciated.
How is life bearing the unfortunates with hollow and sorrow of time?
All knowledge has been washed into the deep sea.
And why should ideas of moral men suffer lost in the deep sea and that of the immoral men find
Safety on dry land?
What is building in this space of things?
Then, life is meant for the coward nation.
Only the sun knows when it is convenient and erected
To punish the ill-fated ideas safeguarded on the dry land.

All the innocent cry are heard from behind and are distributed as touches of entertainments and Suffer blockage whenever it is read and seems as a noise – this is when dedicated to think on their Harass enterprises.
But surely, dragons shall arise from the deep sea to destroy all that have been cooked badly.
This happens as the moral beings continue in their manners despite all temptations and what have You.

Why should the dry land sold out unknowing to the host?
What is left to discuss once transacted?
Should we go on a run that wouldn’t talk of gain and limit?
This is highly unlikely in the land of the known.
Hence, humanity has lost his sense again.

In all, life owns no one anything if we don’t learn to appreciate goodies;
If we refuse to chase it away, and what again?
We shouldn’t count hope on justice where we don’t have a nation.
We shouldn’t have to bargain for what goes out of sight in a bright day.
And, we should go in search of the justice before it goes dark for no one knows how justice is Recently painted.

So, we hear day and night how things can never work according to wishes, but can work to answer The fate of humans.
However, human fates and wishes never give rooms to one another to work on their respective Choices – this simply means, life is too subordinate.
We only account for our time and efforts as these can somehow explore the fates and wishes

We sat on the living room couch,
the TV flickering in front of us.
For a moment, I glanced at the window—

The glass shone like a crystal ball.
I saw two ships drifting toward each other,
pausing as they met,
then slowly pulling away.

I felt a sudden gust of wind,
blowing leaves in between
two gravestones
and, a river slowing down, taking a breath
before being cut in half by an old tree.

I saw flowers in a meadow raise their heads
in denial before surrendering to the winter.

I saw it all.
Then turned back to the tv.