Coffee and Eggs

Am I sick or relatable
Animal or criminal
If sainthood's a fairytale
Does that make me justifiable
I'm here
I'm pliable
Ready for Christ to speak
But only where it's audible
For him to say I'm understandable
Not terrible
Go on
You're fine
You're not the one liable
I'm calm
I'm low
And it's all been survivable
It's possible
I'm valuable

Develop Too

The mornings are fine.
I can wake contently,
perhaps with relief
for the strength to do
one more day. I can push
those dreams into
their space, unheard again.
The mornings are fine.
I drink coffee ardently,
perhaps in search of
a new idea or potential
interpretation,
or an interpretation of
potential.
The evenings are hard,
sitting by that window
looking over and over again
out into the stillness.
It's the silence when
you hear the loudness
of unrequited hopefulness.
The evenings are hard.
I sip bourbon slow,
wondering why
I like the sting. Knowing
myself too much, I try
to reestablish
what I know,
who I know.

Sit.

Everything lost is
found. You are
never in control
of how high the moon
has been. Nature is and
will come at last
and too soon.