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Something's always gone wrong.

There's not a right time for anything,
Except discussing the meaning of the right time;
And I really don't care if it's the middle of winter.
I'll grab a blanket, heat up a drink;
I'll sit in the basement anyway.
I'll talk with my best friend about
How the world could be a better place -
Our one last desperate hope.
Until we admit that we were just dreamers,
And it's finally time for the meds to wear off.


Poetry on a paper napkin.

Paper dreams.
Nothing's set in stone; paper burns easily, words only linger long enough to hurt until their memories fade. My poetry on that paper napkin won't last with age. I'll look upon the tears and forget anything ever existed.

Life doesn't travel toll.
And don't you know you're facing the wrong direction? You won't get anywhere if you're heading into the traffic of a one-way street. Headlights blind at two am, turn back. That's not the way to go...turn back.

Were you ever real?
You forgot to tidy up the mess you left in your past. Winding your way down the wrong street, too fast, blind to the signs. You were a tornado and the night made you stronger. Maybe you forgot that all storms die down.

Nothing's perfect anymore.
I have a cup, and I'm going to fill it with the hopes and dreams that lie forgotten in the kitchen sink, discarded like used dishes and dirty rags, torn and tattered by the garbage disposal; until it spills over from the unending flow of too many forgotten failures.