Portraits

 #1
 
She laughs with her hand hiding her mouth
And her eyes releasing a thousand fireworks all at once
But she refuses to look at them.
Smiling at strangers is her hobby
always wishing for them to smile back.
She has love in her heart which she was taught to hide
Like that stupid Beatles song used to sing.
But she tries every day to tear those walls down.
There’s beauty in her pain the way her eyes glow
When she’s about to cry cause she feels stuck  
In a carousel of demons and there’s no one with her.  
I promised I’d go with her
I promised to stay with her in that ride
She stays up all night spilling ink on paper
Describing the cloudy sky of her mind
Thunderstorms and wooden floor creaking  
Keeping her awake
She says she’ll be alright
But sometimes, sometimes  
She doesn’t believe it.  
She’s stuck in a carousel of demons
Looking for a hand to hold before she falls asleep
But, instead she holds her loneliness close
Wishing it was something she could destruct.
Wondering when the winter will end
Wondering when there’ll be summer again inside her.  
 
#2
 
He wishes he was Kurt
But with Tom’s enchanting voice and wit.
His mouth is a waterfall of
Complicated, big worded, limp flowing sentences
Splashing in your face and bathing your ears
Resembling much to the way
urine spills from a drunkard’s dick
on the damp streets of your home town at 4 A.M
Criticizing his past relationships  
Calling the girls sluts, toys immature
But he always calls his mother to ask  
What they’re having for dinner.  
Because his manhood and independency
Go as far as living alone.  
He says nothing
But the look on his face  
Is like he recites Socrates or the highest of philosophy
Trying to convince himself he’s saying something of importance
He analyzes love and relationships like a soup recipe
And knows everything about politics and anarchy and glass bottles  
By the bench of your local square.
He can talk for hours about everything.
He’s hurt, but deep down he thinks he’s the Messiah,
So being hurt is nothing but what he should be.  
I bet if asked when drunk, he’d tell you that
He doesn’t bleed.
 
#3  
 
He is a self proclaimed  
Damned and downtrodden
Molder of consciousness
For the future generation
A modern day Jesus, a stand-up comedian dressed in black
But with lines cheaper than cans of mac n cheese
And a look of a cow on sedatives.
He is a hippie with hate for hippies
But love for the world.
He is confused and frustrated  
But he holds all the answers in that circular motion
Stirring his beer like expensive wine
Saying “maybe” because “maybe” is an answer of mystery
 
#4
 
In my mind you’ll be always holding  
the wheel of your silver Opel.  
En route home with the radio singing
Jazz songs from the ‘20s in the early morning hours
Sun at half mast streetlights still shinning
As we talk away about everything
With a mathematical thinking of precision
And a dash of confusion and frustration  
Till we get home.
Always there to help,  
always there to count on for another last beer
You’re the best conversation and drinking buddy
someone like myself could ever ask for.  
I’ll always have gas money and a cigarette lit up for you