I met you in the depth of your despairs
during open season and the risk of open wounds,
cut, damaged - only one can repair.
The power you held and the pain you endured,
frivolous, approached and seeking something of worth
but one may only know
the long-awaited truth.

I make these decisions
in the heat of the moment

contemplation is non-existent
my fear is my opponent

stuck in an endless cycle of trepidation
no rights or wrongs
have found themselves in this equation

but to bathe in the what ifs
would force my head under

no air to breathe
and still left to wonder

so these decisions are made
sporadic as they come

I won't be transfixed
you'll find me on the run

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

Regret rides shotgun,
more often than not,
with this endlessly restless soul.
And impulsivity is the worst kind of backseat driver
while disappointment tilts it's seat back
and waits patiently
for my next big mistake.

I've been thinking a lot
about the past,
and retracing my steps
to find a younger version of myself,
basking in the uncertainty of the future -
with all the conviction of an attorney
delivering the closing statement
that will undoubtedly win the case.
Because
a younger me,
naïve and untouched,
knew something I don't
about what it means to be content.

So as I steer myself and my gripes,
into what looks like a ditch,
I'll wrap my fist around the hope
that's still somehow dangling
from my rearview mirror.

Perhaps 2 am is more a siren’s song.
It softly calls to bed
Or maybe urges
For one more look,
Chapter, song, show.