For old faces making a new impact,

i've found you shattered on the ground,
heart beating in tune with mine.
impatient, detached, pondering.
you've showed me light at the end of the tunnel,
the tunnel of twirling secrets, and unkempt actions.
this may be an ugly road,
but i'm enduring it no longer alone.
a new breeze under my shaky steps,
a fresh push on my back.
support you i will,
as you follow the same path as i.
i just found a friend in one of those lies,
and truth in that friend.

For old habits taking a second chance,

April Eleventh.

It's 10:46 am and I've gotten back into coffee.
Fourth cup this week for the first time in months.
I'm not used to the jitters yet,
So I've got a latte stained hand and the table is dripping.
It's raining pretty hard,
Everyone's got busy schedueles,
But I don't worry.
The books are my friends,
The pens are the weapons in my shaky hands,
Fighting the blank pages.
I might be returning to old habits,
But I think its too early to tell.
My heads getting clogged,
With an unjustified reason.
Mix the caffeine,
Allergies,
Too little zoloft,
And I've got the sinus pressure of a writer getting through the block.
I'm chiseling it off,
Piece
By
Piece.
With rain; my favorite of all weather,
My reconnection with coffee,
My anticipation of the next slip to be saved by this very notebook,
and potentially my tiny Ativan,
I'm on my way to the core.

For my hypomania,

Voices resound from each side,
The quiet begins to overwhelm.

I.
Her ear is pressed to the crack between door and frame:
His hand slowly glides off the handle, back turned.

She waits for noise
He waits for silence.

Someone might be waiting to crawl towards the hole in his chest;
Someone might just want to pass through her.

Push and pull;
A hand grabs the doorknob
as the other jerks it back into their pocket.

II.
Maybe they could push open the heavy hearted door at the exact same moment,
but nothing will be on either side,
nothing ever is.
And if so, what purpose do
locks
and empty doorways,
and windows
serve?

III.
We put up walls,
since the idea of space in entirely too infinite.
We need to know boundaries,
need to feel protected,
which overrules our need to wander outside the lines.

If we know what is on the other side of our walls,
Why do we close up every inch of what we can see straight through?

IV.
She knows he's there, but not for long:
He knows she's not leaving.
What meaning can they infer from that,
From a bursting
Bleeding
Barely beating
Fragmented heart?

The wall can be three miles thick,
But the door will always be torn down by one simple breath.

V.
She inhales:
He exhales.