There is nothing like the death of a friend.

Bitter words tug at my heart. 

The juice of my roots, the sap of my skin. 

I wish it weren’t so, but it happens more often then I’d like-

 the plain saddness of what comes along with the realization-

of what’s inside of me

of what’s wrong with what I’ve done.

That I could kill

That I could be the one with the pressuring hand

Pushing through revolving doors

and coming full circle with the loneliness.

Can I expect too much?

Can I smother?

I wonder not, anymore, why the stars are amazed at.

They ask nothing.

They seek no pleasure,

nothing in return.

But I,

I expect the world.

And am found empty handed, once again.