They're gone, it's safe to wake up again.

     Well Hot Christ! It just feels good to start hittin' the old keys again and not having to worry about the deadlines that are due along with it. As a writer we all start doing it for two reasons: Your that kid that can write well, and you got no direction and its the easiest; or you love it. I think I'm the second, clearly. I needed to take a break though. I love learning, discussing, reading, and writing more than most, but you can only read so much before your head wants to explode and you just can't digest anymore coffee. But in this time following graduation I have had plenty to keep my mind stirring and constantly craving to produce, whether it be the last times that I got to spend  with my brothers on the team and how it all came to a close at the end, the reflections on my time in college as an academic or the possibilities that lie vague and indistinguishable in my ever changing future. the only way it seems to solidify in my mind is through writing it down in my own misconstrued and slightly more structured writing.
     A romantic like myself, goes into situations in life saying, "I have no idea where I'm gonna be at the end of this but, Fuck it." But in truth, I think all people who are affiliated with sport in any level say that to themselves at some point. Matter of fact, I think we all do. We all dream of doing what we have trained our whole lives for and reaching the highest level of our craft. But at some point in the process, the dream fades and other things are prioritized as that strange point of realism kicks in. It hasn't happened to me yet; still living in the same unaltered mindset and style that I did while I was playing and getting sponsored by the university to uphold. But that is no more. I live now, for the moment, in a place of opportunity, with a span of months that holds as much promise as I put into it.
     I prepared for training a couple days after I got back to Boise, with no more direction than the words of my elders (former seniors in my position) 'you have to get into the best shape that you have ever been in'. I saw many of my brothers that I played and graduated with packing up their belongings and leaving their houses that they had been in since we left the dorms, headed for new beginnings and uncharted sections of their lives outside of football. At the same time, there was still a large group of us that were out to try our hand at the next level and chase those dreams that we had playing in the streets as kids. A lot of them headed off to train in the traditional places like California and Indianapolis. I would be a liar if I didn't feel the discouraging effect of there movement in juxtaposition to me here at home. I missed seeing Shea, Chase, and Tyrone every time I would go to the football offices and the weight room, boys that I would game plan with and talk to about what we were going to try on the tackles for the next week. I came to this simple realization in the wake of our separation, I am finally on my own. But in that I am the only one that could get me where I need to be to accomplish these things that I want.
    In the first days I was home I started to fall into the same routine I did every winter we had off from football; I'd hangout and get back in touch with my friends from high school. Start drinking out of boredom and nostalgia for what use to be my release from the structure of the program. I woke up one morning in the throws of a vicious hangover. With the taste of wine lingering in my mouth and felt the need to start the process as soon as I could. So I came in to get a lift in and though I had been gone for less than a week and a half, it felt strange to me. I didn't HAVE to be there, but i did. The weight room was empty apart from the singular athletes that were in season and hadn't gone home for the holidays and the coaches that were setting up the lifting schedules for the next group that was coming in soon. That place had been something to me that was like a sanctuary where my achievements had stemmed from. I was proud of all the sweat angels I left and now, all the times that I tried and failed. But now it was different. I had no real plan yet, I was on my own amidst a multitude of ideas that I had that would help me get faster and stronger for the things to come. I took off my sweats and looked around for awhile, unsure and scared to make too much noise in a huge room that I used to run around screaming and singing. I snapped my headphones in and through some weight on the Olympic bar. I hadn't done any sort of cleans for half the season after bruising my shoulder against Air force. I gripped the bar tight on the floor, pulled it to the sky like I had many times over, met it low catching it soft on my shoulders, rose up out of a low squat and threw it off as I reached the top. As the weight slammed the floor, the resounding pound connecting with every corner of the weight room, I had a moment of clarity. This time alone wasn't something to fear, but like the many moments previous, it was something to Cherish. I had reached this place in my life with my dreams still in sight and though my brothers weren't there with me as they were during the season, I still had a chance. I finished working out and went outside to run were there was no one else but the empty stadium. I embraced the cold in my lungs as I ran those sprints. Each breath was something no one would know about but me.
      As the week passed on, more of my senior comrades started to filter in and comfort, till Monday the 9th when we all reported for formal training with coach Socha. I was happy to see Efaw, Billy, Brotzman, and Jeremy all had decided to stay and train as well. It reminded me that, yes, it would be a great experience to go and train with other athletes from all across the country, but it also is who you train that can help you. Nothing pushes a man like telling him he might not be ready or good enough to play at this level, but when you get a group of individuals like that is when it really becomes dangerous.
    Now a couple weeks into this experience and with others like Byron, Stanaway, My boy Chuck, Ced, and Tevis in there training as well, I have never felt more motivated to take advantage of this time before our March Pro-day and show the teams in the NFL that we can be a positive and productive attribute to their programs.
    

when asked to think about how we arrive where we do( I don't believe in checking for spelling)

 When I started my collegiate career, like all little boys that watch too much T.V., I said I was going to be a Criminal Justice major; for the life of me, I look back now, knowing that I wasn’t on a significant amount of mind altering drugs, still cant Imagine what I was thinking. For one thing, I don’t like cops (a fact that has only increased as I’ve grown to know a few personally), and I would never have the focus to be a lawyer, I would definitely find a way to ruin someone’s life beyond recognition. So if we had to start somewhere in my life with English it would be there. I failed my first Criminal Justice course in a miraculous month in a half (you know you’ve failed when the teacher “It’s commendable that you still attend class”) and the only course that I actually liked going to was my poetry class. I had always dabbled in poetry, mostly due to boredom in other sciences and found it to be a wonderful release from the constant consumption of knowledge that happens in your first two semesters with general courses. But I think I finally pushed over to becoming an English Major when I attended my first poetry slam.

            We have to attend an outside event sometime during the semester, so I recruit my friend J.P. and his succubus girlfriend, Amy to go with me to the Neurolux lounge. I’ve never been to this bar before and it is initially quite apparent that J.P. and I, Two large Black men, are a little out of our element when not on the corner of 6^th and main. Everyone around us was either sporting spectacles and a scarf or jeans that would suffocate my unmentionables to the point they might fall off and run away.

That point in a party where the record skips, well, that happened to us as we walk in. We could hear the necks pop from turning so quickly to spot the intruders head towards the bar. We order the regular pitcher of Shock Top each and head for a booth on the north-side wall. We sat down and could instantly feel the plywood through the thin layer of polyester. J.P. Being a large mammal looks at me with the severe distaste of someone who got shorted one hot wing at Applebee’s. I avoid his glare by eyeballing the contents of the stage. It was bare and black aside from the sparse gaggle of props that held in the corners. The random streamers that no one could reach from last years Christmas party dangled in front of the lights; it looked like a strip club with no poles.

            I remember thinking how very out of place we were. But what scared me more, was the idea of the wretched thing that J.P. would make me go to in return for this. All I could think of was how I had always seen poetry slams, as they were depicted in movies, as being these over dramatic displays of performance art that didn’t really speak to me; other then the fact that there was normally a strange reference to a vagina somewhere in the materiel. So needless to say the expectations that I had for this event were low.

            We sit in our spots for about 30 minutes, and then out of nowhere a cute little blonde girl with a bob haircut stands in front of me smiling brandishing a rotating score card. I look at her with a confused face as she shoves it in my hands and walks away without a word. I scan over to  J.P. to see the same look right back. Then the corky little blonde popped up on the stage, lowered the mic with a furious twist to adjust it to her level. Next thing I know, we are in the middle of a sing along. She said something and the crowd would reply as if they had practiced it minutes before when I slipped off to the bathroom. I was pleasantly surprised by the back and forth and quickly tried to join in as I learned the little nuances. The crowd was into it; even J.P. was making noise though it didn’t seem to be words. Eventually she quieted din, shouting ‘shut the fuck up’ and we followed orders. She explained the rules of the party and then how I was to score it. I’m excited now o see what this was like, if it’s anything like the introduction I’m going to have a great time.

The first man came to the stage he had barely shaggy hair, looks like he’s definitely over 35. He stood up there, did the microphone shuffle; raising and lowering it till it met his perfect height. After its at the right frequency, he steps back takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Suddenly he attacks the mic with words; he’s screaming and speaking as fast as I’ve heard anyone talk. He startled me, though he was speaking fast the scare sent my sense on edge and I could make out every line. I could hear the metaphors I could feel the emotion, and I realized that he was using common language in an uncommon way. He went on, changing his physical and vocal appearance throughout the piece. I was shocked as it ended. I want him to keep going. Everyone claps and whistles as I through up a ten in response to his score. I look around top see “8”s and one “7”. “Bullshit” I say to J.P. who casually sips the last of his beer and gives me a nod.

I was entranced from that moment on. Every one of the people that followed him changed there subject matter but the truth of the situation was, I wanted to hear more of everyone. I loved the way that they put the entirety of the emotion into these two to five minute poems that connected to me like nothing else I had heard before. I have always been a enormous fan of all kinds of music (except for country, of course), but this was amazing to me cause they could sing it if they wanted to or speak it in a monotone that played on the fun of the word. It was poetry the way it was meant to be heard read or said the people that created it.

I think the true aspect of the poetry slam that spoke to me, that has always influenced my writing, was speaking the way you would if you were telling the story through you own words or orally; the importance is in the voice that you use to narrate and this experience solidified that ideal in my head. As I look back at it now I can identify the style reflecting the oratory styling that was used in slave narratives, a fact that made J.P. laugh when I told him. As is I still think it is the best way I write.  While fresh off the experience, I started writing with a more similar voice to my own everyday language. It started out a little rough, drifting over to the overtly vulgar, which wasn’t a piece of me really but more an over compensation for my formerly ridiculously romantic styling that seemed to separated from me at the time when I really started to get into poetry and fiction writing.

That trip to the Neurolux gave me so many Ideas and still fuels my creative juices today. I haven’t gone back to another slam, not by choice, but simply hasn’t been room in my schedule. But one of my regrets in my writing career here at Boise State is that I haven’t attended a lot of the readings and outside events that could have really (in a very self-centered outlook) could have helped me grow. I think about how this one experience helped me , and cringe at the possibilities that could have been if I would have done more. My work today reflects a mixture of the two spots in my writing at the University; the romantic enticements that still have me when I read the classics and a voice that reflects me as a writer that’s voice reflects his soul. (that right there is the truth in a sexy negligee)

I am the Ocean

Ebb and flow Wild love, Thick Anger

Dynamic depths blend sand, bones, weeds

And undiscovered (?)

The transparent placidity; smooth, slow, wide, warm

Lure those weary wanderers to venture the calm

To taste the salt,

Drowned under low smiling waves,

So as the liquid fills hungry lungs,

They sink to the bottom of me.

The last day of my project

I've pushed this to the last day I could. I've waited till the afternoon of the last day I could turn this in. I'm going to work, as the sun goes down. All of this is normal except for this is the last day that I have to do this ever... for my undergraduate. It sounds better if I leave the end off, but I'm a realist when it comes to my education. I know they will get my money at some point and time, I'm just lucky enough to have gone this long without forkin' over the doe. Apart from that I've got a good feeling in my stomach and I'm excited for the future. I keep on getting the chronic end of college question, "what are you gonna do with your life?" And I happily reply with a smile, and a I have no idea. I think it's due to the fact that no college athlete wants to be pretentious enough to say, "I think I'll play in the league for a couple of decades, and in that time Ill figure out who I want to be at forty." Now I know that is not the truth for me, but still I have dreams of grandeur when I wake up in the morning before my alarm goes off(always makes me feel extremely productive by the way). But as I look at my future which seems to be only a weekly thing mapped before me, I can say this truthfully, I am excited for whats to come. A couple of my friends have known since the beginning they got to college what "Their Thing" was; one of my buddies is to be the next small town propane tycoon, another, has already procured a spot in the public relations offices of the Minnesota Vikings, and she just graduated this last spring. I see there success and future lives in their respective businesses and I'm excited for them. I have no doubt they will see the returns in there financial sectors while I remain poor, but I'm not to sure I could do what they're doing right now. I have freedom being the way I am; that is astonishingly immature and undecided after college. But the thing I've never understood about the way people, families, and society does with those fresh out of college is try to figure them out and funnel them into a path as soon as the four years of college are over. And maybe I'm sayin this from a jaded perspective, as a athlete in college, we don't get to truly travel and the stuff that we do is so regimented that we are basically giant, beefed up children on a field trip wearing the same bright blue jump suits(if you ever see that, now you know whats goin on). I don't know how it is to be rich, to be able to just take off anytime that i got free time. I have no idea how it is to plan trips, my organization is a little off center and broken. But, I'm getting off topic. The truth for me is I want to really experience life before I decide what I want to do with my younger years. I haven't really been living life; I get catered to for the majority of the time that I'm active in this institution, and while I am more than appreciative for what the university has done for me, I'm ready to try it out for myself. I can imagine myself doing anything really. If I was a bus boy, I would be the most energetic bus boy that ever swiped a table; if I were a construction worker I don't doubt that I would have several referrals for wolfin' it up from time to time, but I'd be excited to be doing some work that shows in the completed product. I can't remember if Ive said it on this blog, but the words of Steve Jobs have been resounding in my head all semester, "Be a Bus Boy[do whatever] until you figure out what you love." Right now, I embody the statement "I Don't Know?" and I think it's odd that I should have to.


Sandpaper Souls

It’s odd to see

The gangs in politics.

Crips and Bloods

In Crisp tailored suits

Allegiances to colors that

Bleed through their cloth,

Animals more savage than

The ones that represent there party.

They don’t give back,

They only know how to consume,

Consume, take, consume

Smiling with there bloody teeth

An Invisible voice gives orders,

The drones follow through,

No questions asked,

Just productivity and money.

What sets them in motion?

What is the difference?

Is it the colors?

Their god damn outfits?

Stripped of those suits,

Removed of their symbols,

Relieved of there beloved colors;

They are monsters.

One like the other.

Brothers playing with others fates.

Square sanded souls

Worn down by years

Of fitting in there cubicles,

Surviving in neighborhoods

Far from the untouchables they banish.

Continually shaving off pieces,

They’ve scarred their faces,

Till the lacerations

Camouflage the mouth

And all that’s left are the eyes.

Hollowed and unblinking

"It's a romantic notion"

On those cold days,

Where the wind sways

The trees that hung over the porch;

Do you think of me

Beneath oak trees,

Can you feel me sink in your pores?

With those soft lips,

And curved hips,

Love me half past midnight

But my cold feet

Slap slick streets

As I loose you to the light

We have minutes,

That’s all we get.

Our time ends

With lips so wet.

Behind your door; discrete,

Laying in a used sweat,

Our love is wrapped in bed sheets.

Dead Memory Collage

“Do you remember the time?”,

Always defined us.

You’d say: “Wake up,

You're sleeping with your eyes open,

Better start dreaming!”

I see you still

In that old blue chair

With the smooth wood arms.

The dusty old blanket

That hung over the back,

The white bucket of walnuts

On the side near the kick-up handle.

I still crack them,

They smell like you.

The aged inside crumble in my hand

Joining the dust in the carpet.

Being a child

Defined our world.

We stomped on eggshells

Spilling the yokes,

Dirty up our pant legs,

Painting Red sports cars yellow.

Laughing so hard we can’t breathe

So hard we forgot how,

Hard enough we forgot why.

When I taste vodka

I know it’s you.

Running around in the night

Driving around in the day.

Loving, living

Joking, falling

Fucking, swearing

Just –ing-ing.

Spinning in while standing still

Calling out for anyone

But needing no one.

"He's a strange one, that boy" 

You can’t scrub me away

My dark skin protects my soul

I am Black,

I am White ,

I am both. The same.

A Biracial clusterfuck,

The child of God’s eventual Progeny

With a Black/White name.

Not a chain wearin’ thug,

Not a white collared tennis player,

But all things in between,

On a scale from Rick Ross to Ralph Nader

I reflect the mean.

People call me Oreo

Halfy, Swirl

Vanilla Chocolate Love Sandwich.

Makes me laugh to think

How hard it must be,

To catalogue something like me.

I’m a god damn S’more!

An all American Staple!

Crisp toasted Brown outside

Inside, a fusion of gooey and smooth.

I’m an indulgence.

Begging to be consumed

Pushed on the taste buds

Growing on your preferences

Until I’m your favorite.

The way I look

Has always been a means of joy.

My lips (these Lips) are apples

Big red Juicy apples

That pull in curious little white Eves

To day dream about

Their father’s nightmares.

But what comes from these lips

Is ironic social Humor from above,

I speak with the clarity of a meteorologist

In the middle of the summer

Northwestern Tight diction

From my quick togue

Barely slower than my wink.  

Oh, how the days blend together... to hell with it, here are more products.

I sit in front of this screen so much, I'm startinging to think its weird during the day when the pale white light isn't shining off my nose. but I guess when you sign up to be a writer you reap what you sow. It's a strange contradiction to my writing style though, I'm all about figuring my life out through interraction, creating joy in my life through that odd thing we call face to face communication. But today I woke up in a glorious mood, maybe due to the fact I am mear days, hours of papers, and a presentation away from being done with  my undergraduated; or possibly its that I woke up refreshed at 11:15am, skipping my class that has an amazing ability to deflate me intellectually and leave me with a sneer and a distaste for litterature. Whatever it may be, I think today I will finally sit down, bite my lip and put the last of my poems down and complete this project. Through this project I've realized something about myself; I can spew a whole bunch of shit before I find something that I think speaks true to the Human narrative and in a more self-centered view, myself. these last poems were longer and I spent a little time with them. they started more raw and I formed them over November and now I present them, content with my product. Enjoy.

Convalescence/ Your Ekphrasis

I

This was never…

Staring at the Floor,

Two lucid minds,

Aimlessly avoiding the eyes

That once had…

These clothes confining

What we used to keep warm

Your arms crossed with nothing

To hold.

The empty space

Grows

With the tick

Of my golden alarm clock,

You’re miles away from me

In this room, we... are undignosed

II

The absence creates reprints

No blacks or blues

Only whites and reds.

Wipe off the dust

Enough

To see what we created

When we created it

A romantic picture

With several copies beside it

Corroding in the dust among

The skeletons in the attic

"She heard the message from the bottle"

I

Drink up, little Girl

You’ve made it where you wanted.

Here, amongst the wolves

Frolic in your short meat skirt.

And baby, they look hungry

But

Don’t fear, I’m hear

So Drink up, little Girl.

Taste the world, little mama

Savor the nail polish,

The flavor of watered down pine trees

Learn to love the burn

That coats your throut,

Restlessly sturing in your chest.

Feel your freedom sweetened or tart

Enjoy the familiar smell of your father

Of your grandfather

Of me.

Drink up, little one

I will always be here.

II

Drink up, little girl,

Take me down fast and violent

Spill me, my love,

From the corners of your mouth

Sliding cross your cheek

Rolling down your neck

Blotting your shirt with wet.

Don’t worry what they say, love

I’m here for you.

Drink up! Drink up!

Fuck their whispers,

We sing badly proudly.

Let’s dance, My baby, Just dance

I’d catch you when you get dizzy

But I love rollin’ in the grass

And on the carpet.

Drink me, lovely girl!!

They are numb, you are alive,

We are amazing!

 

III
Drink slow,

Wait for me, baby

You’re swimming out to deep.

I can’t see you anymore

Over the swells of drunks.

I Hit the floor, near empty.

Without you, Im naked.

What happened to you

When I got left behind?

IV

My dear,

Put your hands round

My shoulders.

Don’t Cry, love.

Tonight marks the beginning

Of our love affair.

I know its true,

By the way you kiss me

In the morning.

"Purge" Day 2

These ones are weird, but that's just the way she goes some times. Sometimes I find the weird ones are the most creative and fun to do. The Coleridge poem I created with Amanda, my partner in course on the romantics where we decided that Coleridge didn't quite understand there is a fine line between love and stalking. I didn't think it was initially poetry but as it is now. why the hell not?

Passing Notes: Coleridge to Sarah

Sarah,
You are lovely,
Do you love me?
                        -Coleridge
Samuel,
Sorry, but no. Please,
Stop writing about me
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
I can't.
You are my muse.
Your every movement
Is the twitch of my pen.
I love You.
                         -Coleridge
Samuel,
Do not doubt that I will
call the police.
If I see you through my window
once more, I shall
strike you with a willow branch
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
Oh Sarah, That would
Be splendid,
for so long my heart
has been frozen in sleep,
Awaken me with your willow branch
                        -Coleridge

Love is a Crossword Puzzle

I hate the way you bitch about my hair,
Literally can't stand how loud you snore
Only you would think it is funny to see you in pain,
Verifying your status as succubus.

Everyday I wake up fantasising that you don't.
Yet, you keep on ticking like Satan's clock
On all that matters, I will never understand how
Unbearable you are, but I still love you.

"Little Boy you're goin' ta Hell"

This just in:
I'm goin' to hell.
I danced too badly,
I drank enough
I have been an avid practitioner
in premarital sex.
I stayed up past 2
to watch nothing but shapes
and bad dialogue.
My only steady relationship is
with Internet porn.
I lied to my boss
and said that my auntie died,
but don't judge me
to lightly, cause she did, later.
I've motherfuck'd
a fair amount of authority figures,
physically and verbally,
I've passed the offering trey
The majority of my life,
And I've said I love you
when I didn't mean it.

So I guess I'm headed down,
taking that fiery fall past
the bottom of the bottomless pit.
I'm cool with it though.
Have been since I found out.
I figure,
hell is packed with
good people and assholes,
the outliers of society
that where too cool to live into old age
they passed on using
the ole' free will card.
Choosing to defect from the restrictions,
with drugs in their veins,
flying through wind shields
without restraint.
I see them in slow motion,
moving loosely between
a swirl of crimson and clear.
they took side-winding roads
off the sides of mountains,
ending up consumed
in one of Mario's red mushrooms.
I can see them down there;
Hemingway is down there
blasting demons with a mossberg pump,
unlimited shells, cigar, and a smirk.
Hendrix is probably in hell
shaking the whammy bar
on his sinner's bone guitar,
a sold out crowd listening to
the greatest there's ever been.
You know Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin
are standing next to the inferno,
Maitai in one hand,
tightest little hell cat in the other
not a drop of sweat on them,
cool than the other side of the pillow
could imagine.
Yeah,
I'm cool with that.
And for Satan,
I figure he never was good
at listening to god,
bet he's loosened up a bit.

Dec. 1: the day I put it all in the Blog! damn it!

 November has passed us by and I have all of the poems written down. So now I go forth with the final movement of my "30 in 30" project; "The Great Purge"!

"Blackberries have thorns for a reason"

a worlds roundness,
soft flap of wings,
dimples with no imperfection
you are the greatest link
in my short thick chain
poised in your silence
cold in your anger
you  are
the sleekness of water,
the warmth of the fire.

Mad/Sad

I was in a different room
when I said that.
you were miles away from now.
still I ask that you come back and finish the job
Violently rip my Ribcage,
Tear wildly through my flesh.
Take your beloved trophy,
Made at home  in my breast
/
wind can't get through my hair
but it tickles my face all the same
the burn in my thighs
comes with no pain to my soul,
I run to forget/remember
where/who I am.

How to seduce a Hippie

I am a man of history,
past and present
world of opinions
views from the outside
my facts are from
grips, sniffs, stares, tongues, music
my structure is a tent
hy address is everywhere.

Day ???: I just got back from break

On my break i think I did the same thing that a majority of my contemporaries, That being nothing. A whole heaping load of laziness and over indulgence on the ability to sit around, eating and drinking enjoy the comfortable couch over the ticking of the keyboard keys. I let my brain melt, at the precise wrong time. I am now flooded with obligations that should have been started weeks ago while also feeling like I could give a shit less. But! there is a bright side of this narrowing tunnel, in an optmistic turn on my procrastination, I did write a looooot of poems. ( beware I was under the influence of watching independant films)

"We treat servers like spiders"

To you, My friend
we owe too much to repay
The jobs we despise
you use to feed
with vervent necessity.
To your plot
we take a great deal
to return diminuitive amounts.
You work in solitude
and we demand of you
 no union or company
My friend, ignore our ignorance
for we know what we do.
Our world without you
moving throughout it, unseen
couldn't be the pillow top we rest on.

An Outline to L.A.F.S.

I. Spontaneous Meeting
      A. tongues turn to knots
            1. fumbling of words
            2. exchanging apologies
      B. traditional handshake
            1. both hands are warm
                  a. soft encased in rough
                  b. silk in stone
            2. the hold is inviting
                  a. comfort slips ease
                  b. good feeling lost, and found
      C. eyes stop searching

"I'm friends with my Ex's"

Conversations are reruns of this drama,
We know eachother too well.
We hide our half smiles
And sweaty hands
As best we can.
Trust is wavering,
like in the later days.
Distance is our problem,
Proximity is hard to define.
If we touch, we will betray ourselves
We know eachother too well
The time is the comfort
Though we separate,
we become closer again.

this is only first installation of  the poems. Theres only so many hours in the day.