Sunny disposition of the positive mind

I wrote little stories
without your permission
you as porch-mate

We held first
in a parking lot,
writing and

waiting with
distractions
required so often

when suddenly
I realize,
I need,
to tell you:

I'm a disaster,
get
away from me

When messaging becomes kinetic

I'm starting to write more and it's gutting,
to be rebirthed with the things I've celled away,
like this globulous, wrenchwork concern
for humanity
with their late-night dismantling of light
from behind someone else's eyes
with a single percussive
slap