Mr. Poetry

For the exe's I played with

Don't rush darling,
let the time hit its stroke.
I know around your age,
you want things to go as planned.
Let the seawater
stroll on their accord.
When it is too loud to sleep,
play a song at the back of your head 

as the cars race downstreet with their

windows down.

It is rush hour every sunday
so be sure to have your umbrella
with you.
The sun is draining you with
job exhaustion.
The heels worn you out from
all day dressing up as
a low-budget model.
The dress is becoming like
your second skin. 

I know it when the day is odd
the rain pours down
on their windshields
your focus will steer away
from the river of sadness
falling from your blue orbs.
You will feel like you want to laugh
alone while watching the drivers growing impatient,
lined up in their flashy lights,
for the stree lights to go green

You will also wait.
But entirely for a different reason.
You'll sit by the bench next to a stoplight for me.
Usually.

Two blinking eyes will be the
 cause of your anger issues, 
anxieties, and depression.
Two stars speeding into overdrive.
Stone heart, I am sorry for your loss.

You will have insomnia
imprint in your head, 

your pills beside your bed. 

I'm scared you might not
endure it for long.
 

                                                                           The amount of patience
                                                                                is growing thin and

I will watch you stand up
from the long hours of tedious
feeling the pavement rocking
you to sleep which apparently failed to do its job
and that memory of your
body walking swiftly
no head turning back
will be the start of
my own.

- For the exe's I played with.