I remember drunken writes

and broken days,

slurred poetry

and you always understood

the nonsense.

I bought you cookies once,

when you were at your lowest.

You didn't know I was too.

You held those crumbs,

grateful,

I was just glad that

it meant something.

We were etched in ink,

But more.

We were family in our own way.

You called me razzle

I called you an asshole.

We both laughed.

Ill miss our banter

The most.

And your stories in that

slurred southern accent.

And

Writing nonsense in gravity.

The sister I never had.

Wish I'd said it.

At least once.

Feels like a version of me

is lost with you.

One of my favorite parts.

I guess that's why we kill flowers.

Those wilting blooms are for those

That are forced to stay behind.

A reminder.

And So My flower fades.

And I say goodbye.

Knowing that part of me

Will follow you into the dirt,

My favorite friend.

I hope they serve cookies

Where u are.

And I hope they have strippers

And Woodford.

Thank you for everything.

I promise I will never forget

"Old Shells"

May the best of me

follow you down.

Or at least try.

And I will walk away

missing something.

No one will ever hit on my wife

Quite like you.

Or call me a dumbass

when I ramble.

You meant more

than I ever said.

And I'm sorry.

And So My flowers wilt.

May they follow you forever.

My dear friend.

Goodbye. And thank you

for all of it.

For everything to come

Thank you.

My dearest Shells.

She's my

Bourbon hiccup,

Like peace

And the cost of it.

Like getting

In trouble as a kid,

Knowing you'd take

A beating

And decided

It was worth it.

Alone with

Tear filled eyes

Rubbing a wound,

But all you think about

Is telling the story

To those that matter.

Some things

Are worth it.

I guess that's

Why is write.

She sleeps soft

In the shape of

The letter

I scribble

Before stopping

To question

If I've said it before.

Another sappy write

About a girl.

Like a bird

When it becomes aware

That it stutters.

Then doesn't care.

Because fuck it.

It's saying something

Important.

I cannot find the shore

Where intention is

More than ritual.

I cannot find peace

Between the blinks

Of moonlight and blindness.

Give money to the

Beggar

At the stoplight

And I feel

Not so shitty.

Do I wish to ease

The slow scratch

Of hunger

As it rakes out

Against the world in protest?

Or am I oblivious

And just needed

A reason

To smile?

Are we just wolves

Sharing rabbits

And my conscious is simply

A request

That violence

Is envied by peers?

Or maybe I actually care.

I dont know most times.

So I hold the door open,

When I can,

For strangers,

Hoping that if I see myself

In everyone.

Maybe some of this counts.

Much like the moon

And what it pretends to be.

Let's share scars

like shots,

each of us Picking

our own poison.

A necessary

evil

to kill the words

only we ourselves understand

before they sneak up throat

and give the deaf

The last words

of the day,

Words we will never recall.

I know your pain.

The anguish of

a story lost

syllables

that will circle

forever in the presence

of oblivion.

So I'll have Jim

And you have Jack,

And we will both

drown the demons

dripping from our pens,

like snakes stretching

after the frost.

Shadows that grow

beneath the best parts of it.

Don't worry my friend,

darkness will make

everything safe again.

So let's share scars.

Like shots.

And make everything

the same shade.

Till everything blurs,

Cheers.

Lately

I'm finding faith

Between

Questions

And

Self-laced intentions,

Like a dot to dot

Painting insanity

Or something else.

So I interrogate

My eyes

And why they bend

And spin

Light as they do.

Is anything real?

So I will follow

my greed

Into the foundation

Of everything

I will never know,

And create night

With eyelids and hope.

And I will see her

As more than

An outline,

When I can trace

nothing

But darknes,

Peeling like scars

From from the center

Of me.

I peak back out

At the dawn.

And i wish I

I could see everything

Like this.

And follow the greed.

The truth is,

Being wrong

Is fucking

Beautiful.

Because she looks good

In both outfits.

If only I could

Also

See

Myself.

Dapper as fuck

In my confusion.

Maybe truth

Would never

Drop beneath the horizon.

But when it comes

To her,

You always squint

At the fucking sun.

She was created

from the depths, born

between time and tears

before she escaped

snares trapping perfection.

so my dreams run red

in a feeding frenzy,

consuming ghosts

like daydreams

and various insecurities.

nothing good

can come from this.

remorse is a juggernaut

and it really pisses me off

when my scoops come

up empty.

the popular fallacies of love

pool around my bones.

so I will sink

soft beneath the sand

and catch her

On the way up.

She's casting whispers

on waves again,

Lets the sound starve for air

and spread between the tides.

And I'm counting bubbles

within the mist.

And her echoes

wash up and

shape the shoreline

until I find myself.

Walking this tightrope

that only I'm aware of.

She's looking at a dreamboad.

I'm dodging steps

so I don't trample something

I never knew existed.

And the waves are nonsense

but feel truth.

So I'm tapdancing in moonlit blindspots

because I don't want to

stomp on dreams.

I will let the ocean

pool in my palm before

I carry it careful to a flame.

Boil it out and trace the clouds.

Just...looking for clues

I probably let pass by.

And I will miss something.

So I'll show scars and wrinkles

as proof I tried.

Hoping the textured leather

around my heart

tells a story she hasn't

Heard yet.

A lot of maybes

Die within hope.

Guess I'm praying

for chances now.

I'm missing audio.

Still, twisting silences.

Ears bleeding memories,

My moments transparent.

It's about believing

in moments unrealized.

I cannot recreate

this dying sentiment.

She awakes magical

like daylight transcending.

I whisper gratitude,

lost between syllables.

For a syllable challenge. 3 word lines. One then two then three syllables.