How Are You

A poem about what I (currently) think about when I walk around at night by myself

The streets welcome me.
The pavement meets my feet with a greeting of how are you.
The black strip listens and catches my tears as I continue to move.
Not quite pacing but racing to finish, I walk under the street lights.
Hood up and jacket zipped, cars drive by me on this late night.
They don't care what I'm doing or thinking about and I won't tell them.
The best listener is you because no one truly understands how it's been.
Darkness is cold, but another broken love is much colder.
Because pain is given and undergone by the eyes of its beholder.
Houses align the pathway into and out of my emotional mind.
I go through a single line over and over, repeating verses buried inside.
What happened to all the chicks and all the love I lost over the years?
What have I been through and surpassed. I refuse to look in a mirror.
Not only because I am ashamed, but because I don't want to remember.
I've forgotten my buried past and realized and new depression.
I'm sunken deep under the ground only to relapse the same obsession.
Constantly, I find myself in the same cycle looking for a different relation.
The Lord no longer gives me an ounce of hope in times of confession.
Instead, I'm left with a numbed head and mind filled with hopes of resurrection.
Most of the time, I feel completely alone. These nights are reoccurring.
Never changing and never leaving are the thoughts of a lover with me.
Holding my hands or in my arms, I'm telling her stories of a never ending beauty.
The topic of discussion left hidden until I mention her name aloud.
She'll laugh and carry on about our relationship. How powerful and how proud.
But hallucinations and dreams of this chick never seem to meet reality.
The need and want to make love to someone who I truly need and want is overwhelming.
Again, I want the feeling of a warming touch and sexual rush with someone who cares for me.
But the addictions and drug obsessions drown out all the pain I feel.
Even tonight, I find myself intoxicated. But, I'm still so close to what's real.
The pavement meets my feet with a greeting of how are you. Even that remains surreal.

Author's Note

When I was finished writing this, I felt as if what I had written did not satisfy my need and want to get the emotions into writing. I feel as though I need to write, however, if I did, no one would take the time to read it. (now thats what you call a reference)