The Poetry Marathon

It’s been one hell of an interesting night

sleepless night

laughed filled night

watching the stars fill the sky

the moon rising high, weaving between the clouds

The night turned into dawn

You know, it’s true, what they say,

its darkest before dawn

but only those who have stayed awake

and watched day turn into night

could attest these truths

Only the mad, Poets, artists and drunks

stay awake this long for their art

what I mess I’ll say

after I read through the disasters ive written

words tosses, strewn about

haphazardly thrown on to the page

what a mess I’ll think

but for now, I’ll write this last poem

and smile

thinking of the past 24 hours

Shutting down

slowly

as the sun also rises

like Hemingway wrote

old man, I wonder

if he stayed awake for 24 hours

driving himself mad on

sleep deprivation and prose

Which is what I’m running on

almost empty

on hour 23

The last cigarettes are smoked

Sleep deprived

Hungover and dangerous

But in spite of everything

I am creating art

To be read, probably ignored

but I’m writing it

at 6:34 in the morning

I am creating art

Telling stories

of the adventures I had

years ago

reminded me of the years

i have behind me

And I remind myself

of how many years I have ahead of me

and those good times only seem like a small collection

of what is yet to come

Soft bass bumped from the car speakers
My arms pinned above my head
You fucked me in rhythm to the music that meshed with our hot breath that steamed up the wet, rain kissed windows
Thunder boomed
Grabbing on to me, pulling yourself in more
Exploding with me like the lightning in the darkness

losing track of time

the hours are slipping

and so am I

cloudy eyes

fuzzy brain

4:55am

searching for that perfect combination

of words

to arrange for you

but right now

I wipe the sleep

tired eyes

Ready to keep going

So tell me love

did your fingers blister

when you snuffed out

our flame

was there remorse

the day after next

of when you realized

your side of the bed

was cold and empty

I often wonder

play that day back

Stuck on repeat

with those words

I wanted to say

with the words I needed to say

with the words I’ll never get to say

Dismal 1am
A cold, strong coffee writing
at the old notebook

I guess it’s safe to say,

that all things happen for a reason

that all roads lead back to home

that if it’s meant to be, it will be

but what if..

what if things don’t happen for a reason

that all roads don’t lead back to home

what happens if it’s meant to be, but it’s not?

then I’m stuck here, lost, I’m limbo

with a pen in my hand

As it clacks on my notebook, wondering about all of

“what if’s”

that will never happen

There is no amount of water that could extinguish

the Fire inside I have for you

the flames lick the corners of my ribcage warming every cell

a spark, turned into a flame, turned into an out of control wild fire, that I hope burns for the next 60 years

only when my heart stops beating will that fire go out and turn me into ash