Never Trust A Writer

Love is a minefield

and friendships

can be a cow pasture

filled with mushroom

nonsense and

psychotropic rainbows of

"feel good surprise".

I walk through both hoping to find

a reason to exist,

however...

my desire for connection

is disconnected

and my ability to be alone

jumps every speedbump

and crash lands

in the providence of imperfection.

I'm drunk again

and cursing myself

for being a better poet

than a friend.

I have no boundaries

and no way of knowing

which words hurt

the worst.

Maybe it isn't the poetry,

but instead,

jealousy disguised as

a vanishing wave

across uncomfortable ocean,

while truth drowns

just a few miles off shore.

I mentioned mushrooms

earlier, and now

I can't stop thinking about

jittery combinations

of puzzled people trying to solve

themselves in a mirror

while playing flute.

Rest up, my friend.

What is there left to say?

I cannot fix the soreness

I created.