40$ WORTH OF POETRY

jazzclub in downtown manhattan where I paid 40$ to get in

GO I was oppressing my thoughts, not scared of what they’d say but how they’d feel. The six ice cubes in my drink were melting making the glass half full. Usually my glasses are half empty. In between the set of bass and lowered voices the klink of the ice cubes opened my mind. chaos in music chaos in mind. emptied the glass emptied my mind. Somewhere between the first 30 minutes and smoke in my eyes i picked up my notebook. I started writing, on page six just in case I fuck up. the first five are too precious to fuck up, on the other hand you can always fuck up. And so I wrote: I’m aware I should not. I’m not supposed to run into the arms of chaos and destruction as if they were the safest place on earth. They’re not. They’re the opposite, but they’re home. I’ve known these arms for less than a full moon, but somehow they felt familiar the moment I met them. I wasn’t home for a long time, but I don’t miss it. I can only hope for destiny, right place right time and hopefully forever mine. I put down my notebook and let myself imerge in the chaos. so atleast now I have 40$ worth of poetry.