When the angels stood watch over the remains of your name

"...I think I forgot how to hear the voice of God."

Before I continue on, if you think you might be offended by talk of religion, God, and suicide, please don't travel with me any further. We are not going to pull any punches tonight.

Ok. Deep breath. Here we go.

"I think I forgot how to hear the voice of God", he says to himself often. Usually around the time he imagines a gun in his mouth. He imagines this not out of some personal pity party or plea for attention, but just because it would be quiet, and he wouldn't have to worry as much any more. He wouldn't feel like such a sniveling and helpless burden. Wants to be the protector, the Guardian of Light & Love for his family, not the annoyance whose heart won't stop beating so damn hard all the time, and who (at the worst of times) feels like he has already lost the things closest to him. He knows he hasn't, which means the end must be on the way.

Don't want to be a burden. Enter the shiny gun.
Don't want to cause pain to his loved ones. The gun in his mind is unloaded.
Standoff.

Hell of a predicament for a guy who is just trying to find Purpose. Contentment. Peace. God.
Sometimes he believes in Hell more than he does in Heaven.
Rephrase that. Sometimes he believes he more likely Has A Place in Hell than he ever could in a place where he would be at peace.

Probably think we are talking about me, aren't you? Maybe we are.
Maybe we are talking about many of us,
Maybe I am talking about the childhood friend
That took his own life before he truly had a chance to shine.
Maybe we are talking about the musical friend who recently took his own life.
Did they feel this way? Were they just wondering where the hell the Divine had gone?

Maybe they too got sick of the scientific babbling while trying to glean the traces of Creation from under a microscope?

God isn't there.

Maybe they became tired of all of the Mysteries being "debunked" by some self-righteous "enlightened" bullshitter who decided those of Faith are weak, and that the path to Truth is through the worship of science, "facts", Facebook, and Wikipedia. Analyze, study harder, and ignore your heart. Truth is found within solutions and mixtures.

The Divine cannot be found within a petri dish.
God is not an alchemist.

But He seems to be quiet these days.

An old man told me once that there is no one more dangerous than someone who believes in nothing but themselves. There is nothing for them to lose or gain.

I have always been afraid of religion. I have been even more afraid to find God.
I don't know if my God is your God.
I don't know if they would get along.
I don't know if your God would beat up my God.
I don't know if they would get along well enough to pick out matching silverware without fighting.

I don't know... but I am scared I will never find His (or Her) Voice.
I am scared I will be left alone in the dark, no sound in the hollows of my insides but
The loud boom
and then silence before one of my attacks; like the quiet that quickly follows a massive explosion.
It is eerily quiet for a split second, terrible beauty,
Before
All sound
is amplified
ten fold
And all I hear are the gnashing teeth and grisly lies these demons scream at me as they latch onto my back and tear the best things from me.

I want to feel safe. I want to hear that Heaven was proud of me today for trying my damn best to be a great father and even better husband.
I want to leave the dark spaces and know that God is watching, and that there is a voice inside that speaks Truth. A voice that is unclouded and unfettered by science and fact, but lives in the realm of heart, a place of implausible but true, of faith beyond reasoning.

I am afraid of these things. I fear drinking just as much. I fear dying even more.

I just want to remember how to hear God's plan, and know that those that came before didn't leave blood on the sand for nothing, that it was ok, and that they are doing something better now. They are angels of the highest order looking out for the powerless and unloved. I want to know that no one is truly unloved, that no one was ever left behind, and that when I wake up in the morning those nasty little things eating my happiest moments won't be there... they will have moved on for something more palatable, and less Light.

No one wants to be left in that dark place with themselves.

I look at my family, and realize that I see a glimpse of the good that God can create.
I treasure it. I cherish it. I honor it.

..but I don't know how to listen for his Voice, and I miss it.

why do your hands fall (relaxed) to their sides when the heavens speak your name...

There is something small inside of me.
It is a quiet little thing, delicate lace roped around simple memories, smiles. Sunlight.

A tiny little thing waiting to be born, maybe inching it's way slowly out, curiously looking back and forth.
Getting frightened by
the harsh light
and rushing back to it's hiding place. It is too loud and scary out in the real world.
Better off in here,
safely snuggled in my imagination,
where light is always warm, honesty is the only accepted currency, and the good guys will always win.

The dreamers were supposed to inherit the Earth.
Using weapons forged of truth, compassion, creativity, and love,
We were supposed to change things.

I believed one day we would win.

The good guys are always supposed to win.
That quiet little thing inside reminds me of this.
It always reminds me.

I like this little piece of me. I have to strain hard to hear it's plaintive and pleading voice from somewhere deep in my chest.
It gets harder to hear in the stark light of morning, and when the angry things inside have their say.
Little Voice has a name.

At one time it was called Innocence.

... but the good guys don't always win, do they.
Sometimes they do battle for as long as they can,
and then they break.

When the Kings and Queens of Idealism fell in battle
I always imagined the Earth would shake in uncontrollable sobs and heaving sighs.

..but sometimes it is worse. Sometimes there is
no sound
at
all.

Instead of honoring those who championed for a better place with tales and songs of remembrance
there is just quiet.
another one is forgotten.

A light goes out.

Hopefully someone noticed.

My little voice reminds me of a good friend.
Haven't seen him in a few years.
He is a little like me.

As kids,
many soft lit afternoons were spent building a friendship over Nintendo games and
chef salad.
Our worries revolved around getting to the next level in Contra.
There was a lot of laughter back then.

We got older.

We were part of a ragtag band who rode
fearlessly on the backs of their dreams.

We spoke of our futures.
True loves and honest, wholesome families.
Families that didn't fight.
Lovers who loved only us.
We would make our dreams come true with our professions. We were the creative ones.
We were just waiting for life to begin.

We got older.
Something happened.
It was ok, though.
We were still waiting for our real lives to begin.

It was just around the next corner.
We could feel it.

Things happened.
Events unfolded that didn't resemble our fantasies.
I became self-destructive, wallowing in dirty chemical experiences
and becoming more and more familiar with the opposite sex.
It's funny.
I worried less when I was hell bent on hurting myself.

This isn't what I wanted.

This isn't what my friend wanted.

We wanted warm light, and wives who wrap their love around us unconditionally.
Not just until the more interesting or exciting prospect came around.

It was ok, though.
Our dream lives were coming soon.
We were going to be Uncles to each other's kids.

We got older.
One of us gave up. One of us didn't.
I am not sure which is which.
I was always better at playing the game.

He was always the better person, though.

My little voice reminds me it is still there, whispering so softly to me.
It tells me that my dream life is here, but I have forgotten how to see it.
Little voice tells me it is ok to relax. it is ok to rest.
It is ok to be happy this time.

it isn't going to be like those other times.
and if it is then so be it.
you have come this far. Don't give up quite yet.

There is nothing to fear. Everything you ever wanted is right in front of you.
Accept that. Enjoy it.
You are not those that came before you.
You never stopped fighting, even when those closest to you fell in battle,
Sometimes even by their own hand.

That is ok.
They did what they could.
They are at rest. Let those ghosts be.

..but that little voice reminds me to look around.
Open your eyes.

Just breathe for a little while.
It is going to be ok.

...tiny little needles, tiny little deeds

I know someone.

He is kind. Smiles a lot. Has a lovely family. Wonderful family. He is told he is the envy of many.
He believes it. He knows he is blessed. He cherishes them.

He has a secret.
His smiles are fabricated. He sprays it on most mornings like hairspray on parched lips.
It isn't that he is lying about this beautiful life.
He knows happiness is there. No one has done anything wrong.
He just can't feel it sometimes. Can't feel much outside of his tired skin.

But his secret is big. Only a few of us know about it.
Most of us don't really even understand it.
Some of us think it is just in his head. He can shrug it off. Think pleasant thoughts. Meditate and think about good vibrations until the sky no longer looks like it is on fire.
He sees only a blaze caused by his unintended deeds, good intentions turned to dust. That may not be true. It is just how the salt of unshed tears tastes in his mouth every time he thinks he ruined something lovely.

Seems self-absorbed, doesn't he? I don't think he is.
It is his secret.
He thinks it might be killing him.
Sometimes in the early morning he thinks about whether he should take care of it. Get him before it does.
It is a selfish thought, but maybe then his insides wouldn't demand that he listen to their filthy, maggoty whispers. Maybe it would be quiet again.

The secret is a condition. Mental, chemical. Frightening.
It is a potent cocktail of an extreme panic disorder blended slowly and poured over some sort of depression.
He told me he wants to be happy. He knows he should feel it. He feels grateful...

when he doesn't feel
angry.
melancholy.
frightened.

He hears from all of us that he used to be more fun, more friendly.
Sometimes he still is. He fakes it. Wants those that love him to remain loving him.

He is screaming inside. He doesn't even know why.
He wants to grieve for things that happened. Never got a chance to.

Loves his wife. She wants him to open up.
She really wouldn't want to see inside.
But, he trusts her. He gives her a tiny, tiny little peek into the things he no longer knows how to tame. 

They end up arguing.
He tries to talk to her, and then FEAR. FEAR is all he thinks, all he experiences in this tiny moment.
No coherent thoughts allowed right now. His emotions speak in loud voices that are not his own.
This is not him.
He tries to explain. FEAR. JEALOUSY. this is not him, he says.
ANGER. FEAR. 
She is frustrated. Understandably so. It is too much. He knows that. No blame aimed at anyone but himself.
SADNESS. ..damn it, not again. Not this feeling. He can't think clearly.
This isn't him. Not who he really is. Not how he really feels. It is the little monster in his panic-filled belly that he considered cutting out the other day. It is hungry. His secret needs to be fed. He is not supposed to feel peace of mind while it is awake.

It was easier when he used to drink. He could numb himself.
There was no more FEAR ANGER ANXIETY MELANCHOLY
Just the endless nights spent vomiting his future away...
but it was quiet.

He can feel the sound of the traffic outside on his skin.
He can taste the color of his own disappointment on his lips.

When he gets like this his senses don't make as much sense to him.
They are amplified ten-fold, but.. wrong somehow.

His secret demands attention. Wants all of his focus. It has time for nothing else. It is hungry.


He wants peace inside himself, in his home.
He is getting help. He tells me he is hopeful. I pray for him. He needs rest.

Says he's really tired, and is just trying to hold on to the little bit he has left inside that hasn't gone to rot.
He knows that to keep the peace he needs to hide inside himself again until he can get better. Can't really share what his loved ones think they want him to. He knows better. Been down that path. Doesn't want to lose his family like he has lost before. He says he can hide. he is good at hiding. He can be happy shadow and try and ignore the demons that speak in his ears and tell him terrible things that at calmer moments he knows aren't true.

He will just smile, he says. Starts to cry a little. 
Just smile.


I don't know if he is right.
but I will pray for him.

I will always pray.

..the beauty in those smoky sunsets

...Whether you realize it or not,
You are a survivor.
Sounds a tad melodramatic, doesn't it.


It is true. 
If you are drawing breath as you are reading this,
You are surviving.

We all are.

For each of us,
It is something different.

The world can be such a wonderful place,
Filled with bright light,
Glittering, hopeful eyes that look toward a rapidly approaching dawn.

Sometimes it's not so pretty.

That's alright.
You are surviving.
You're not the only one.

With each of us,
It is something as unique
As we all are.
Something inside.
Something that hardens our hearts,
Maybe makes us more sensitive,
Maybe makes us artists.
Maybe it makes us want to give up.
Sometimes it makes us want to try harder.
Maybe we are just very tired,

Or want to help others and don't know how.
Perhaps we just want things to be a little easier for a while,
Just long enough for us to catch our breath.

You could have lost someone close to you.
Maybe you are very sick, and don't know to get through each day.
Have no idea who to talk to you...
Or who would even listen.

Maybe you're having trouble paying those bills.
There are always more than enough of those, but 
Never enough money.

You could be worried about the world your children are growing up in,
Or the space in your world that your parents will eventually leave.

It's all important.

It's even more important to remember
You're surviving. You're a survivor.
We all are.

We don't have to survive alone,
In a vacuum.

We might not always like each other.
Not asking you to.

But
We can help each other.
Doesn't even take much.

It starts small.

An idea.
Good intentions.

Armed with these I believe we can take this place and make the not so beautiful things
A little prettier.
A little softer.
A life that's a little less about surviving

And a lot more about glitter, light, hope.

"What does this have to do with anything?"
Good question.

The answer is:
"You have a story worth telling." 
Let's hear it.
"You are worth being helped."
Let's find a way for all of us to help you.
"You are worthy of helping others."
Let's find a way to enjoy ourselves and help those strangers that should be known as our neighbors, our community.
 
Let's get started.

long seasons, little prayers

Not that long ago I thought that I was finally

Starting to lose it,

Was feeling a little bit crazy.

Couldn't figure out where the

Reality ended, and my reactions began.

Between the moments when I rushed my mother to the hospital,

A close friend losing his son,

My father's struggle for his own place in a new life,

His anger,

Someone close to me and a suicide attempt..

Work becoming a blur of exhaustion, frustration, and eventually

Personal rage...

I thought this was it. 

I'm done.

No more.

I just couldn't handle any more.

 

I just wanted a quiet place.

Please God, just some peace and quiet.

I think for a little while I became nothing more than a sack of meat

That reacted to stimuli,

That smiled weakly in the hopes that it would 

Hold those shadows at bay.

Please God, let me stay sane a little while longer.

I don't want to push her away. Her, a love that came swiftly from the ether.

Please don't let her leave.

Not yet.

This was my nightly prayer.

 

She is light, 

Genuine smiles.

Honest love.

She gently holds my insides,

Does not tug or tear.

She protects me, prevents my softness from

Spilling carelessly on the floor.

She is always there.

We love each other.

It is more than enough.

It drives me to quiet and safety, and her arms pull me back from the brink.

Many times already...

and She is still here.

I am thankful for that.

We protect each other.

It is always more than enough.

Please God, let mom live.

This was my daily prayer.

Still is.

I stopped playing music for a while.

Nothing comprehensible to say at the time.

Just a lot of worry.

So much worry.

Please God, let me one day to commit to some sort of faith.

I believe..

I think.

My heart says yes, my actions say that there is a line

and I refuse to cross it.

I envy those whose faith seems to flow so freely, who are able to smile in the face of all that has and will come to pass. 

And they still believe.

Instead of pursuing my yearning for belief and being,

I got angry.

Mom might die. 

A child died.

My father may never recover from his own actions and that of 

Those around him.

A family member wants to kill themselves. Tries to.

Work becomes more important to me than it should. Easier to drown myself in the things that don't really matter.

Please God, let me stop questioning you so god damn much.

This is my afternoon prayer

When I stop being hurt long enough to take the time to do so.

I started writing again.

I am getting ready to perform again.

I am preparing to breathe in music again.

Everything has changed.

It will get better.

It is getting better.

I will be better.

I look over at my love.

Thank you, Lord, for this gift that is her.

I don't have to do this alone any more.

Sigh of relief.

Thank you God.

I may not be ready to love my creator fully yet,

But at least I can honestly thank Him.

Maybe someday we can try this again.

I would like that.

...those whispers that tasted like rain (soft words illuminated by heart light)

I realized that I don't speak enough of the good things.

Life flows in unexpected and wondrous directions, and I become quiet.

Pretty silly.

I remember the rain splashing gently against her cheeks,

The way her eyes shone so brightly,

the impending kiss that changed my life.

My heart woke up that night...

...and i found it had a lot to say.

I remember thinking that even if it was only for this one night,

No one could ever take it from me.

 

No one could tell me it was only a trick of the light.

I remember a walk along a bridge,

Watching the sky catch cold fire

As the sun lazily fell below the horizon.

We were holding each other so tightly, drowning in scents and smiles, and the heat of our tender touch.

I remember thinking at the time that if it ended tomorrow, it was all worth it,

Just to experience

That single moment 

Where we basked in each others sun.

No one could convince me it was only the longing whispers that speak so soft, so urgent

In my mind.  

 

I remember how worried I was when I told her I loved her.

Oh God, how I can worry sometimes.

I was ready for the consequences.

This is not an easy thing to say, when you feel that your future could quickly slip from your outstretched and wanting hands.

As always, she put my worries to rest. 

She loves me. I still feel swift lightning pulsate within every inch of me every single time I think of this.

She loves me.

It amazes me how such a simple touch from her feels like things are brighter, more vivid, much more beautiful. 

Color has a taste. Scents have a look. Sound feels like soft velvet on softer skin.

I don't know how, but I feel that I had always missed her. It is like a reunion of long-lost hearts, finally colliding with a passion and intensity that I am still only beginning to understand.

God, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever set eyes on..

...And she loves me.

What does this have to do with the subtle strains of music that float from heart to fingers?

 

Everything.

Quand tu danses (in the rain, with arms outstretched)

I was spinning in circles.
Eyes closed, fingers lightly touching the steel strings of my guitar,
music slowly falling in tiny droplets
Into the air surrounding me.
A little mist I breathe in,
Composed from the tiniest little notes.
Fingers speak only in the quiet rhythms of my heart,
Telling that old tale our insides know too well.

Secrets, passions, desires.

My plain will and how I try to gently exert it onto the world around me.
How I love to pretend I'm really the one in control.
In these moments I almost believe it.

The song ends, spinning stops, eyes open.
I'm alone in my room.
It's late. So quiet.
Nothing left for the guitar or my heart to say tonight.

It's so quiet.

From the soft glow cast from dim lamplight
I think about how I always wanted to dance and kiss in rain.
Play and laugh, let silliness abound for smiles' sake.

Think about how I always wanted to be immortal,
Spare my loved ones from the day that it will be the time for me to bid adieu.

I would rather be the last one standing on that quiet hillside,
The one overlooking the farmland that my elders worked with their own hands,
Waiting once again for that northern sun to set, 
Missing those closest to me, rather than be missed.

In the late night quiet of my room
A little thought tickles the back of my neck.

Someday I'm going to die.
 
A few days ago there were smiles and laughter in this otherwise quiet home.
Children laughing, playing, being children.
Adults talking, smiling. The rooms seemed brighter that day.
Those shadows that I follow didn't seem so dark.

In those children's eyes I finally saw immortality for what it really is,
What it should be.
The moment when those loving children hug you, and you kiss the tops of their little heads,
Tell them you love them. They tell you the same, and all of those words mean very little
Compared to what your hearts sing so sweetly,
so strongly to each other.

The melodies spun from the hearts of children,
Made of the purest, tinkling notes,
Songs that need to be heard by all of us.
I think maybe we would all be a little happier
If we took the time to listen to their little tunes
that speak of play, of laughter,
Of silliness for smiles' sake.

In the quiet of my room
I still want to be immortal.

I don't want to, but I know
That
Someday
I'm going to die.

I hope to dear God that
Children will be singing, playing and laughing that day.

..how I love the way you wish upon your own stars.

One of those evenings.

I drove for a while,

No destination.

Lights trailing across wet pavement,

Music unassumingly flowing from the stereo.

I don't even know what's playing, 

The notes quickly forgotten as soon as they are created and cast forth.

Thinking of someone I know.

A gentle, kind heart.

A beautiful smile, cast in a lovely face.

She doesn't believe these things.

Timid. Kind. 

Doesn't see those things in herself.

I am very fortunate to know her.

A good person under an enormous strain.

Consider her a friend.

I wish I could help.

Not my place, though.

Can only lend an ear.

That has to be enough, I guess.

I just want her life to sing,

A lilting melody that removes the approaching shadows under her eyes.

A simple tune that makes all in attendance smile

At the realization of what life can really be.

Less light around me now, less sound.

Just a constant and quiet hum of the engine,

The persistent hum of thoughts I encounter and dissect.

Coffee in one hand, lightly burning my hand through the paper sleeve.

The slick and smooth steering wheel in the other.

I slow down before the next curve on a blackened back road.

I think of him,

A good man who tells me he doesn't know how to talk about himself.

A very honest statement coming from a gentle heart.

I pester him too much about revealing himself,

Only because I know the taste of those bitter things hiding inside.

Separations aren't easy, and all of the persistent little internal unsaids 

Can take the kindest and sensitive of us,

Twist and turn our hearts into something unrecognizable that couldn't conceivably still be 

Beating and fighting for life.

I wish more people would try and topple the towers of his fortress, that forced cool and calm exterior,

Demolish the fortified gates that block access to that still-beating heart.

He is beautiful, and has thoughts worth listening to.

He doesn't believe that.

Still capable of so much.

He can be a survivor whose heart can one day sing that song 

A subtle and moving piece,

Of hidden suns whose light we forget to reach for,

But whose warmth will eventually reach us whether we ask for it or not.

He is worth a life melody that crescendos into a resolution of happy notes. 

I can hear the music coming from my stereo.

Fitting song. Turn it up after I finish the last of my now cold coffee.

Light has surrounded me on my drive once more.

No longer driving in such a darkened place.

Other travelers on a busy road surround me.

The sounds of their passing and the soft illumination of city lights feels good.

The light feels good again.

It's not a subtle realization.

Those words hit my guts so hard that it almost hurts a little.

I want to remind both of the beautiful souls on my mind tonight that

Being loved is never too much to ask for.

I need to remind myself too.

The light can feel good again.

self-portraits drawn with eyes closed.

Sometimes I am too high strung.

Sometimes at work I am an idiot.

I often don't like the person I become in those daylight hours,

Some sort of vicious lycanthrope who knows it all and is very opinionated.

During those times I pray for night to fall.

I want to let out that deep, soul shaking sigh,

Fall back into my timid ways.

Just be me.

Not worrying about everything.

I realized that the more substantial I feel the quieter I become.

I fight a daily personal war for survival in the workplace.

I turn myself into something I'm not.

I don't like it. It is how I get by.

Those who know me at work and those who know me personally have experienced two very different creatures.

The beast of the daylight hours is very vocal, very brash, very driven.

Very scared.

All these people around. I am uncomfortable.

Deep down I wonder if I should even be here. I care too much and can't let go of the smallest things.

Forget what deep breaths are like.

The person I know myself to be when the sun sets is 

Quiet, friendly, a little unassuming.

Very shy. Very loving. Very forgiving. 

Not very opinionated.

Humble. Not so crass.

Looks forward to long walks and even longer drives late at night.

Looks forward to those beautiful conversations.

Can't wait for more of those moments that make me write the music that I know I can.

I am older than I pretend to be,

Not as old as I sometimes feel.

I am scared.

I think I have reasons why I dove back into that daylight life headfirst recently. 

I have secrets.

I don't want them.

They are there.

This is part of getting older, I hear.

I drove back the old personal demons.

Unknowingly created new regrets.

 

This time I'm not trying to forget, but understand.

Maybe we're all scared, sometimes.

Maybe we don't really pay attention to our effect on others,

Maybe we are wrapped up in ourselves.

It can hurt to open our arms and hearts to another.

Maybe I need to forgive myself a little more.

Maybe I will be kinder to others in the daylight,

and not just when I feel better in the twilight.

Maybe none of this makes sense to anyone else.

Tonight it makes sense to me.

..the prettiest of wishes, like flowers, laid across your grave

I went to a memorial service the other day,
It felt like a high school reunion.
He was a good soul.
He fell through the cracks of everyone else's lives.
He was truly one made of light,
of all the good things I want to be someday.

In the end it didn't matter.

I wanted him to win.
He, above most others,
Was always worth that.

No one ever said any of this would be fair.

It was a beautiful service.
The images of an all too short life displayed on a projector.
A voice heard one last time,
Taken from a radio broadcast.
A captured moment in time,
Never repeated.

We smile. We laugh. It's like he is still here.
Except that it took a bullet to his brain
For most of us to take some time out of our more important and self-involved lives
To spend a moment with him.

I hear the stories about how he was always present,
Always caring, always loving.
Always selfless.

I wonder if that is why he didn't win.
Played with his own shadows for too long,
They showed him a few things.
At the end of the day,
He was loving and all alone.

He deserved better than we could provide.

This is no place for the good and virtuous.
We'll feed on you until we've had our fill.
When we're done we'll move on.
It's what we do.

I wish it wasn't like that.
This should have been a place for the dignified and honorable to grow,
Nourished like spring flowers after a long rain.
Not achingly reaching for a sun that we have been told lives above those threatening clouds,
Not grasping blindly in the dust and dirt for some sustainance.

It was never supposed to be like this.

We could talk all we want about the pretty things,
But when it comes down to taking time for that sacred moment,
Giving a good man like him a chance,
We have better things to do.

Don't we.

This has been rattling around in my dusty brain for weeks.
Came to a vicious conclusion two days ago.
Music has been flowing freely ever since about these things.
It took a death to inspire me again.
See?
I'm no better.

I feel terrible for his family,
His closest friends.
They are sweet, loving.
They loved him dearly.
They deserve some peace, some love.

The rest of us have no right to be there.
Maybe we do.
Stare it straight in the eye.
Maybe learn a thing or two.

I watch as it quickly turns into a reunion, drinking and chatting.
"It is what he would have wanted."
Perhaps.
I'm ready to go.
People from my past emerge.
They are chatty. I pretend to be.
It is good to see them, but not the place or time.

This time it should be about him.
The one who should have won.
But it never is, is it? At least not for long.
It just has to be about the rest of us..

It should be better than this.
It's time to go.