Poems from Nineteen

My year with depression, alcohol, and all the wrong men.

I always feel like I’m holding back

Ever so slightly.

As if that extra bit of energy,

Could strip me down.

Leave me trembling to the core,

Leave me bare,


Songs from trains running through Harlem,
And jogs through Chelsea to catch buses.
And boys who’s passion I loved more than their hearts.
Melodically, mathematically arranged to pull at my heart’s nostalgia strings,
To make me miss you.
(Or who I thought you could be.)

They call junk, we call it love

Dealt from men we come to adore.

Find a vein and shoot it up,

Till your body may explode.

Chase the high, let it become passion.

Let it fill your heart with hope, with adoration.

And as you lose your supply,

Begin to lose yourself.

Try every alternative and fail.

Search for the sweet nectar you crave.

Snort it or smoke it so it doesn’t hit the viens.

Passion drives you to find someone new,

And get your fix once again.

But beware of withdrawl, and it’ll happen soon,

Or maybe later, but it’ll destroy you.

You’ll find yourself empty and a piece of you gone,

Desperately searching to get a grip on.

You see the men with passion in their eyes,

And love in their hearts ,

And holes by their viens,

And your sobriety tells you to step away.

But you’ll be damned to see passion go to waste.

I’ve fallen in love a couple of times,

With cowboys and clowns and my own demise.

And like all forms of life,

it grows and it dies.

“Hello” can’t exist without “goodbye”.

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