Where To Next?

Miles and miles of road.
Empty, lifeless, hell-bound.
I look back to the cold
atmosphere of the last town.

I've left behind a memory--
Scarred, broken, faded.
It's one of just you and me,
our relationship, degraded.

Every time it happens,
I run on days like today.
Scenery is misshapen
when I chase the pain away.

Now fifty past the limit
I've forgotten your face.
My plan works too legit
to believe I can erase

what happened not long ago.
Was it days? Or hours?
For now I'll lay low.
This time is ours.

Well, it used to be.
That's what I remember.
Maybe I just dreamed
of late nights in December.

The cold ones that you held
like me, wrapped in your arms.
Of warm fire you smelled,
You did me no harm.

At least, that's what you said.
But you said a lot of things.
Like, "Let's go ahead and
fly to Colorado Springs."

Little did I know we never
escaped the cold like we meant.
Now without you, I can shiver
and pronounce you hell-bent.

I left loved ones
just to make this with you.
But these are just reruns
of the show you hated, too.

We went places, lots of them.
Invisible towns like Fort Worth.
But where you're heading,
has no compass marking North.

The moral, I guess,
is something too simple to
have taken long to press.
Just do not pursue
what was never there in the first place.

Dogs Have Cleaner Tongues Than People

I don't mean to be a nit picky bitch,
but his pants hang a little too low.
His kiss smells of cigarettes and lies.
He's been hanging with that chick next door.

It's hard to see because he's hiding
behind the six stringed ballads he writes.
It might be a punch in the face you need
to realize that he's never wanted you.

His affection will continue to addle you
and get you to think he's something he's not.
I can't believe a girl so smart, so sensible,
entails me to tell her about a boy.

Can we call him that? Is he truly qualified?
Or maybe he's just a pig, rolling in his own dirt.
So thick on his cute pink skin you can't tell
what's what anymore, and it's true.

You're Exactly my Brand of Bic Pens

I guess it seems like a pretty peculiar thing to ask,
But I feel obligated with our mutual interest and all.
You write poems, the kind that make a girl swoon.
I write stories, the kind that make you reassess your "morals".

It's not invasive, I promise. Just an inquiry for my benefit.
I already know your daily grind--squint, pout, inquire.
Make this interrogation less tedious and answer me--
When you pour out your heart and soul, is it in pencil or pen?

It sounds mediocre, I know, but there's meaning behind it.
I can tell the type of person you are by the utensils you use.
Just like you can read between the lines of symbolism,
I'll tell you everything there is about who you truly are.

If you're a pencil kind of person, you are precise and cautious.
A step forward could just as easily be a step back in your mind.
Mistakes aren't easily identifiable with an eraser in hand.
You can hide them before anyone else sees what you've done.

But with pens, you must be spontaneous and adventurous,
Never caring of the outcome of what may be a bad move.
Living life is not an option for you, but an obligation to fulfill.
Whatever happens happens, and your philosophy is set in stone.

I can respect your conception on whether I'm erratic or rational.
This is just something that aids my analysis on your suitability.
Either you can sipher this in pen and go forth with my inquiry,
Or erase this in your mind and pretend like I never happened.

Don't try and be sneaky if you're using that pen for this poem.
I'm not easily forgettable; in the end, you'll just scratch me off.
Just another lottery ticket with no prize, no dollar redemption.
That's why I prefer pencil--you'd just be a faded memory.

Heartaches in the Shape of Sleeping Bags.

The sun bakes her skin like a scorching basketball court.
Her body is shaky with the silent pain she suffers.
Just climbing into the car is enough to cause collapse.
Nestled against the door, she acts the part of composure.

In the rearview mirror, her pain isn't visible to the chauffeur.
He's oblivious to her salt-stained face, her broken pieces.
"How does it feel? Is it throbbing?" He asked, her leg the subject.
"No," she says, replying solely to tell another truth.

"It doesn't throb." Her hand was over her heart. "It just hurts."

Simulate My Sentiment; Depict My Despair

My fingers shake as they move to meet the misted glass.
I can't tell if this is worth taking the chance.
The rumors are overwhelming and they tease me to believe.
But I'm completely resolute on disclosing this truth.

I don't understand how you see me through here,
a hidden portal to the depths of my personality.
You're not afraid to scrutinize this glass for any traces of life.
And I admire that from someone who can't see the clear.

This figure stands before you, a pure representation
of who you thought you molded into the ideal being.
I'm sorry to admit that what you believed before was all wrong.
I shake the mirror to get you to feel how she feels inside.

Frightened at the prospect of falling into the mirror,
can we act as the old ritual which the dramatists performed?
Like two opposing poles of a magnet, attracted but held back
at the very thought of being connected by the moon's force.

Don't expect to believe we're anything more than pertinent,
not more than two contrasting heartbeats emulating the same action.
Don't take this to heart and believe I'm writing this for you.
This is for me, though you can probably see it, too.