"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."
Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems
‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title
and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away
At least that was the plan
But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet
It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno
It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings
I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass
At 22:00 she would come out looking
for him
Would call out his name
and eventually find him by the
sandbox or the slide
and would dust him off a bit
and take him home
and feed him
As she’d put him to bed
she’d kiss his face, sometimes
his mouth
and he’d ask, “Why did you do that?”
and she’d reply, “I don’t know.
But did you like it?”
And he’d either nod or say
yes, knowing that it’ll make her smile
and then she’d cuddle with him
until he’d fall asleep
and whisper in his ear that she always
wanted to have a little boy
just like him
and that he was making her unbelievably
happy just by existing in the same
room with her
She was the best neighbor he could
have dreamed of
She gave him all the attention
his mother gave to her bottles and
her guy friends
and everyone was very happy
Daydreaming as a profession 