The Packing

Layers upon layers of human life
Soils the floor
Squalid
And yet,
It is my life

And I tell myself
These things do not define me
And yet,
They do

Under the bed a gift never given
It's just an old guitar strap now
And yet,
The friend to whom it would belong
Feels the same

In an old book there's a phone number
I remember who that person used to be
Changed now
And yet,
I am too

Entangled in the mass of computer parts
There is a failed art project
Stupid of me to think I could tell a beautiful story
And yet,
Maybe I could have
Maybe I can

But there's no time, I must pack
Memories are nice, but there's no room
in a dorm
And so,
They're left

Damn it!
The tears should be over now!
The people are still here, alive!
And yet
A part me, of us
is dead.

Quite neatly tucked down
In the bottom desk drawer
Lies the wide ruled paper
Scrawled out on a floor
This ancient contract
Of the friendship of four


Writing is just a distraction
And yet,
It is the release