Every now and then I bleed you a poem

In the space between

Cigarettes and bottles,

Question marks abide by me

In the place between

Sleeping and dreams

Unfinished thoughts

Strive to be,

Complete

Is the word for the lack

That drives most people

To write of

“I need” when they do not have.

Of

“To see” when they are blind.

Of

“I want” what they are not given.

Of

“I love” when there is no one

Strange? Enough to feel

New things for an old

Dusty spirit

Can you feel it?

Thoughts born of wondering

Begin to roam

Thoughts born to voyage

Search for

Home? Who knows?

Not I, stranger than the space between

Two who know nothing of

Three who see nothing in

Four who feel nothing for

Five. Or six who dream of

Bridges between people

That know nothing of

Each other.

This is a response to beautiful words

This is not a

Poems, can not be formed

By young men half drunk

On life’s sour lessons

Half high off nostalgia

Half gone but remaining

Because someone must be left

To notice enough

The absence, to prevent it

Anyway.

Every now and then, I bleed you a poem

From cuts made by days

Gone as

Weeks

Turn to years

With nothing to show for all that time

But wrinkles and bruises and anger.

Regret, goes in deeper

And deeper.

So yes,

Let it be beautiful,

If you must feel pain

Let it be pure

If you must fall apart

Let there be music

And crack, in time

To tune, in turn

To melody

Break down to

Glory and there

Will be no regret.

Broken men fear

Little, more than

Breaking men

Fear nothing.