when skies are grey

I have never known how to write about crying, when my body becomes a piece of another dimension. It is then that Truth seems alterable.

A childhood song reverberates through my limbs: please don't take my sunshine away.

Fury

I want to crawl into an enclosed space, lay my head down and sleep through this turbulence.

I pick out the raisins from my raisin bran and throw them back into their box. I want it plain. Just like I want you, no sugar coated splinters that will get caught in my throat.

Why won't you let me in? Answer.

If it's almost March

I'd like to lock my bedroom door and scream at the top of my lungs that I know no one has the key.

I want to pace up and down my living room and drag mud into the kitchen. I want to roll up that dark Egyptian rug and throw it into the snow.

I want to erase the memories from this mind and start with a new and empty bowl. Ladle a new soup for today and tomorrow.

If

If there is no intended at all, just blackness, just pools of shadows behind every story and every act. If there is no truth behind this glass laughter or ahead of the misty air I breathe out walking from a single destination to another. If there is no great something looming beyond every inch of what I call reality. If there is nothing at all, just me. Would I last?

Silenced

I cried myself to sleep last night but you tore your head away. One mustard seed of pride is all it takes. God hears my silent prayers but you can't even hear my loud and forceful words!

Lord, if this is the way You have decreed, allow my heart be at ease.

I drive nothing

How could you leave me behind? I want to tell you to look, these are the cut out holes where my eyes should be.

Ten days lapse between Now and Again but the mind does not bend. I have been to the right and the left side of this spider's web and of this small library of records. But I cannot exceed it. A young boy, many years younger than I, shelves books that have been left on grey study tables.

I am not a writer. I am a coward. Why else do I shirk the words I want to say the most?

Only

Something has left my life.
I have yet to decide whether or not it is a loss.
how many hundreds of cars have driven by, none see me.

the absolute emptiness I feel has always been there, but disguised by
happiness kept at bay through every day errands I pretend to be busy but there's nothing, emptiness in every action. Mechanical.

Remedy needed, lacking.
Confidence is superficial.

Wardrobe of rebellion is just a wardrobe.
I've killed something beautiful.

Slow motion freeze life. Everything changes nothing changes.
growing up staying young when does it all end?
I've travelled from troubles in other people's lives to troubles in my own.

Anger eats me alive. Consumes any goodness I have ever possessed,
fists constantly clenched. If anger is passion, I have succeeded.

I have been standing on this edge for so long just waiting for someone to push
like the subway platform but not behind the yellow line.
and fear of the future quietly whispering at the edge of my thoughts:
people marry, people die.

How many signs have I missed how shallow have I been how much pain have I caused.
I want to press a pause button, just stop it all.

My images are blurry because that's all that's inside of me:
a great big blur of nothing.
But, something.

How the year drags on and becomes so awkward.
Lines etched to perfection
but perfection seems a disease. please someone buy me flowers.

I'm finding it hard to understand how much of myself I have to throw
away before I can be considered good enough.

If I could write outside my lines about everything love should be and isn't, would you be satisfied?

Juxtaposed

Frustration. That a man can withdraw from the heat that burns inside the reflection of his eyes and that a woman must be restrained within her own shadows.

The Threat Effect has just kicked in. The sum of a few moments ago makes breathing a task added to the burden of my list. I see that there is no past - just memories re-experienced in the present.

As these words are typed out, each letter becomes a fusion of what was and what is and what will be. I wish I could know where unformed words live before they are said or written.

I wish I knew the words that you were about to say.

Sounds and Bruises

I've been had.

Every other thing seems outside these walls I've built with bruised hands. These smooth sturdy bricks seem uniform in the steep darkness, but the sun rises and reaches with its burning rays to touch the many imperfections in my wall. I come to see that they are not bricks at all, but straw.

The wind screams your name, I've tried to cover my ears but the drill is deafening. I can see the blood trickling down the sides of my face, out of my ears but I still hear this maddening cry. It's no sound at all that pierces my hearing.

And yet, and yet.

Day 39

I spin slowly in this circle, in place - is it my place? I survey these inches and my eyes dart from your face to the one next to you. And back. I wish I was capable of this thing, love is it? But, I have none to give. My burned fingertips have learned to snap back from the fury of the heat that never deceives.

I envy flowers, to grow in such a way that they do, to blossom without fear of a looming winter. They open, cry freedom, then are destroyed, swept away again. I've strayed, oh how I've strayed.

But Distance, I cry. Distance.

Cast down

I slowly bite the strands of my hair hanging low by my ear and wonder if these cravings will ever be satisfied. My lips bleed and crack under this uncontained pressure, and I leave them.

I lower my gaze from this screen.

Going down

I search him for any sign, no matter how small and futile, to signal to me that I am here, alive. How could I have been such a fool? How hard I've bitten onto a reality that has never really existed. I've bitten air, spiralling down into an abyss of unknown.

You will experience pain, and when that time comes, you will want an escape, and there will be none.

The waves

It is indeed a misfortune to be caught in a world where language is, in and of itself, a barrier to reality. Tell me which words are true and I shall count them on my one hand. And the square and oblong try to unite in a failed attempt.

Has nothing been real these past twenty years? And these phrases of my twenty years are swept away by the charwoman perhaps, or by a careless caretaker. Yes, the coffee shop closes and we all must leave, must venture into the falsity that is reality.

The coffee shop closes and I am left on the corner of these two converging roads.

Starved

Am I a starving poet?

Starving for the inspiration that will make me write beautiful lines like I once did. Lines that will make me weep because of their utter and resonant truth.

If words limit, I am free.