haruki murakami makes me depressed

the weather has gotten chilly
coldness drapes the body like a cloak.
no need for the air condition inside the house anymore.
you open the windows and let that autumn breeze blow in
and he's still there, sitting by my side, stares with returning stares
then smiles with my longing and lust- after him like a velvety trail of smoke from a
cigarette. the knowing of resistance is prominant, the sadness weighs heavy in
the chest along with the goosebumps and beauty marks by the breast.
another fall, another dark winter, another year.
and he won't leave me, we both know that.
those secrets about the winter, we know those too.
we know that with the coldness comes my sadness more and more
and that the only thing that cures it is warmth. so we wait
and maybe pray but always cross our fingers that
it skips us this season, this year, this time.

you want me to stay by your side, be happy, smile constantly, shake my fucking hips around the kitchen and be merry.

and all of this without a touch. a spine shiver. a finger sliding up and down anything any one part of me.

and i cant do it. i wont. i'm not as brave as you think thought hoped i was.

and in the end, after all the men who i hopelessly sought after to take your place failed me, it's over and this is goodbye, the end, farewell, ciao- fuck you.

and he said poets must always be in love but i think he forgot that he use to be one.

I keep writing poems about him

The leaves haven't changed colors yet, it's september-
you've changed i'm sure, more than just cleaning up your room.
added more names to your fuck list; written more songs about
your town and the one who got away, or ran.
and i keep trying to think nice things
but my heart aches and i know you know that feeling-
you've told me so.
and i keep writing poems about him
in spite
in spite
never in spite-----

fuck off

Sometimes, sometimes i think too much, write too much, and love too much. I splatter my walls and pages and skin with emotions. this world is always going to hold so much back, and now I want to let everything go. I tried so hard to be that person that stood in the shadows like the secret russian spy trying to hide so much from everyone but now, now everyone knows what kind of cigarettes i smoke, they know that I switched from whiskey to vodka and they know where each and every one of my tattoos are. They know I got rid of his baby, that I cried the night before in the bathtub, that I wrote it all down-that I miss you still. I write too much down and say too much out loud and whisper too many i love you's while you're sleeping. But this is me and this is how I am and what do you expect me to say about you?

my writing has turned into shit

taxi driver
take me here
please
so that I may
listen to the music
watch the people
get high-
on the life and
lights
and sounds
the time and the space.
taxi driver please,
make your second right
so i can wake up in
someone else's bed
use someone else's bathroom
walk down another's stairs
feel like this life is amazing with
the little rays of light creeping
in through the cracks in blinds in the house
with the beer bottles half full
half empty on the table
and the smell of cigarettes floating through out
the house.
driver, take me home
so i can shower this man's scent off of me
and the booze from the night before
so i can sit there and read a book
or  pet one of the cats
and i'll put a record on and sing those
soul songs, the ones that make you
think about last nights and the ones
that make you get up and sway your hips
and taxi can we just sit here
at the light so that i can think
about all of this for a few
take it all in
drown in the scents and the thoughts
of the him's and you's and they's and always the I's.

walkin' to work
and it's too fucking hot out
the car bit the dust finally
where the hell did my spirit go?