(Old Poetry) Here again

Rain pouring.

The sound woke me up

Six am,

Here again,

I look down to see a sleeping face,

And wonder hangover.

From night lost.

Still I don't feel sober,

Falling over,

I lean down and whisper in an ear.

Something I'm not sure

I wanted him to hear

Daisy you’re dying,

Little girl with the curl,

hair that falls down

Brown as the ground

Little girl with the eyes

Determined with lies

Filled with the sound

That came crashing down,

Little girl with the skin

It’s growing so dim

You’re

delicate yet damaged

And I’m

Downright dammed

These nights I will never forget

Call train bathroom floor

You and me Chris

Concrete, cold tile, Ketamine

Cold water tapping

As you wash my smoke filled hair.

I'm coming down

From what?

I don't remember

Rapping, tapping, napping

Fist on the door

Is what I'm afraid of.

Shivering contractions

Seizing me and my actions.

Skin pale against florescent lights

-is it strange that I feel at home?

Blind

Get up morning
open you’re eyes
Asleep but alive
starting again slow,
and a another day
Its ok,
You’ve been gone a while
Its fine I’m just five
but
Had to find my way blind,
And
Yeah I cried.

(old poetry) I am From

I am from
Burnt tortia crumbs,
The slums,
Chili on my tongue,
Smoke in my lungs,
The sweet smell,
Of my mothers hair,
And The Berenstain Bears,
She says she loves me every day,
But bars on windows take me away