Poem: O.

Bright with caffeine and conversation,
your eyes, blue and grey gates, stopped
parsing the ugly structure of the world,
quit pointing out the lack of syntax
and began to see beauty once more.

You say you can always find the
hate where you need it,
a desperate offence against apathy.
Don't you know that detatchment
has to be better than the constant
whittling red iron of anger,
I want to tell you, holding on
to your shoulders and watching
the words drift down.

Is your erratic laughter a sign
of happiness once more, are
your smiles only side effects
of stimulants?

You tell me you're a nicer person
when you're fucked up, seeing the
world free from your usual dull perspective.

You try to find the right combination
of uppers and downers to even out
your moods, to enable you to finish
all that you've meant to start.

The random events you always notice
have to happen for a reason;
all that's left to you is to figure out for what.