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Captain's Log - Looking For The Pot Of Gold
Poetry spills from my lips so it’s harder to write when I have someone to kiss. On a hot as fuck day in October, we kiss. I make it a point not to remember the day because I promised myself I wouldn’t be sentimental anymore. So, I didn’t. All I did was numb myself to it as it washed over my existence. It built up beneath my mask until I scratched it out. It’s a starry night in December, the shit poets dream about, and we are still together. Poets dream about things like this too; pushing deadlines till they cease to exist. So here we are somehow existing beyond our shelf life, stumbling drunk from the bar as I lean on you, I tell you I am attached to you. It’s hot again in January but now the heat is different. A paradoxical heat because it brings forth destruction in a month of new beginnings. We reached our shelf life. We burnt it all and we each carry equal blame. On a foggy morning in February, we are drifting in the unknown, we talk about the Phoenix. You said sometimes we must burn to create. We will burn again, but …