You may have

felt me before this day

in sweet ways

that make men

give me their cards

at music stores,

chase me out

of grocery stores

for dates, free drinks

at bars claiming its fate.

You know, I never

stop running

and who knows now

if I wake up tomorrow

or the next day

if I will run toward you

with these demons at my back

angels in my blood

and this pen,

this fucking pen,

filled with my disease,

how it makes me bolt,

pour out letters

think quick, breathe heavily

as coins clang, women laugh,

phones beep, and here I sit

in my comfort, writing zone

next to another soul mate

eyeing me with jealousy

as my eyes never leave my page

and these walls surround me

and that girl across with her annoying

laugh

still does not make me lose my mojo;

your messages, I’m not answering,

my images are just that constant

disillusion of reality.

You have to lie on your side

elbow propped up

and mimic me; stare right back

as all the pictures fade, disappear

into the soft soil

at our feet

and the only sanity

lies in an insane asylum,

definitely not here.