journal · poetry

Just Passing Through

I know no happy endings.
But I can give you seven lines
for terrible beginnings,
although their looks will be deceiving.
And as the ashes from my cigarette
fall to the ground like rain,
I think, “I’m stealing lines again.”
Although mine were most likely
not even mine to begin with.
For there has always been someone before me,
writing the same things that I write to you
and wondering what to do,
what in the great wide world to do,
with themselves.
Because, like them, to me
being free has been
a classic Shakespearean tragedy
for all the knowing who you are
but not what you want to be,
or even caring.
I don’t really.
I keep losing rhyme to reason,
losing time,
looking to you to save my life
when I know you can’t
because yours isn’t right,
and I shouldn’t.
And though I could go on
for a thousand words and more
wasting space and your time,
their time, mine,
I won’t.
It’s always about time.
the only thing we haven’t got a guarantee on,
to spare,
or even got.

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