Around The Dinner Table

around the dinner table

comes a story not so old

that they think does not

resonate anymore

about crooked floorboards

and cold water for months

and saving all your money

in order to save yourself

and when it ends they

hand you some cash since

these times are past us

but you know you're wise

and so put money in a jar

hidden from everyone

you have to save up

in order to save yourself

the times have never and

will never change

• savings jar - zero (me)

done with my reputation as a poet

medicated just another synonym for forgotten

• no idea - zero (me¿)

gone are the times

when you couldn't sleep

not knowing where I was.

and now this home again

is just as cold as i have

remembered.

I come back from the snowfall

to see my brother leaving and

to you sleeping soundly as ever

and I cannot be upset at any of that.

but I just wish growing old wasn't so hard

• "turning seventeen" - zero (me)

i will pack up all my life

and leave memories behind

writing a few notes to friends

to make sure I am forgotten

I know I will die one day

my mum raised to believe

if I spill my blood it will be okay

but I won't do this here

I won't rot away

in the same fucking place

who made me die in everyway

i can't Die here- zero (me)

(writer's block hit me like a truck and my life has been so chaotically stoick I hate it. also it's a song draft not a poem but we will ignore this fact)

I'm sitting at a bus stop almost alone and I haven't been this calm in months

The same bus passed three times already but it's not what I'm looking for

And this should be it, this should be reason enough to write

but it's not

For I've been tired to my core and all I've wanted

Is to be held by the one adult person I let myself be known

For I need something bigger than my name. For I need someone who knows better than I do

But it's all futile and I can't bring myself to ask her for kindness

But it's all without point and I can't write anymore

"Nomen Omen, just like Moliére" - Zero (me)

how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves

there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights

there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict

he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for

"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"

there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches

there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop

and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week

the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship

"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)