There's tea brewing in the kitchen
that may or may not be ready.
I haven't heard that proverbial whistle
yet.

You introduced me to Oolong tea
a few years ago at that cafe downtown.
You drew me a picture of a sad boy
in a collared shirt and unkempt hair.

You said it was me.

I drew you a picture of a butterfly
with a beautiful wing pattern

I said it was you.
You never noticed one of the wings were torn.

You never really knew why I did that,
didn't you?
Well, words are fleeting now, and-

Oh. My tea is ready.

The pizza boxes
the empty beer cans.
The pipe smokes
the remaining indulgence.

Fractions of time were lost
(probably a few brain cells, too).
I was floating within my synapses
that were shooting this familiar indulgence
back and forth.
They were thinking:

"Why the **** is he doing this again?"

Once you feel this numb, feel free to answer that question.

I'm outside
and the Nebraska sunset is more than welcoming.
Orange and warm,
the birds begin to weep.

From my hand
I drop my werewolves.
All just for one more sight -
From my eyes
the Nebraska sunset glistened.

I danced.

There isn't much
for me to write about anymore.
I've worn out the angst-filled hate letters
and the longing love letters, and
quite frankly,
I thought they were **** good.

I've been awake for awhile,
pushing forward this idea in my head
like a surgeon guiding his patient to the knife.
It's at the front of my head,
ready to shatter the glass of my forehead.
Or, better yet, gently move down,
and slide between my teeth
like my chilly breath on this cold day.

There is always time to take into account.
It's needy and it's hungry for wasted minutes.
It claws at the door until I turn the ****,
and, like a wave, collapses me.
And this idea, so overwhelming and heavy,
will tell me to stay on the ground,
let more time past by,
and soon I will fall asleep on this cold day.

This idea isn't a fair gambler.
There's no areas shaded gray,
trust me. I tried to find them.
Once you're in, you ain't goin' back,
like a criminal taking his steps toward Old Sparky.
This idea might render me like that criminal, actually,
and maybe you'll realize how this will haunt you.
Write your requiem on this cold day.

I stood at the water's edge
in a movie-esque scene where
it was me and me alone
staring at myself in the water's reflection.

My echo lead me here.
You said I made a sound you would never forget,
but that's something no one should carry but myself.

So my echo lead me across the fields, and
over the hills and,
down the valleys until
I was stopped by the shore and
I realized there was no way to
take
my words
back.

They're always going to echo in your head.
But believe me, I tried to catch them.

I took a walk down to that elementary school again.
The first time was vibrant and honest.
This time I realized the first time was just a waste of breath.

The streetlight burnt out underneath the bench we sat upon.

You're a thousand miles away,
and the distance is quite pleasant.
But now you're a red devil or a white ghost
haunting the halls of my house,
or the streets that we drove down together.

My God, I have so much to say to you,
but words are like cigarettes to me now -
I'm running out and ****, I want one right now.

Maybe two.

One to forget you and one to forget that elementary school.

Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?