mid-somethings

passionate naiveté,
twenty-four years and some lays,
a few drinks, i'm bukowski,
ambling through night like john wayne.

i breathe reckless, restless sighs
to not drown on lack of sleep.
still learning how to defy
second-guessed essence mystique.

those trees are budding early,
thinking february's spring.
we don't exist as purely
with careers and mid-somethings.

please don't confuse my happy,
i prefer my voice to be hoarse.
fireworks in a bright pink sky,
bursting for better or worse.

i remember her blue eyes,
the confidence they gave me,
the frankness of the first time,
the genuine quality.

we said i love you early,
to prevent being a fling
we didn't last so purely
as we approached mid-somethings.

i threaten my sanity
with obsessive memory,
ambitious images of me,
passé ideals of empathy.

someone turns on the TV,
maybe to tune the day out.
there's your singularity,
vicarious exceeding real.

those trees still budding dearly,
willing february spring,
we can't exist as purely,
with our loaded mid-somethings.