Reach Your Skin.

 Founder, I still see your face

               at the tipping point of broken grace.

A sanity set apart from delusions,

   what have you seen with hallucinations everlasting eyes?

Sweetie, I still see you in a dense fog of Grays,

             between the seas that separate us,

                                 you are in my mind.

I hold on to you,

  hold out for your fate.

I hope you escape the ideas of interrupted thinking,

              and dizzy dreaming of desolate desires.

So what I never told you… I couldn’t,

                                           I can’t,

                                           I won’t, 

                                           I never will.

But you have to know you’re a fallen card house,

      scattered about the empty attic of a place

                                          I used to call home.

I had no choice but to leave you floored beyond the fall.

Spread about my instinct was a simple cry for your safety.

Then you hit me as the worst sort of epiphany.

How can I help you?            I can’t. 

What can I say?                   Nothing.

You’re out of touch.

Founder, we’ve become cold and disconnected,

                                depleted and drained.

Left with the silence of sweet memories,

           bitter notions of what occurred.

Endless questions, unanswered.

My expectations- overcast,

but looming above London’s fog is the sunlight,

I realize may never

Lost Long Ago.

 There’s a certain type of patience

that leads you to your wits end.

It’s more than impatient I’ve become.

It’s tired,

              worn,

                       grown thin

                       and feeling greatly depreciated

                       by a solemn single chance

                       of beginning again.

Simply to see the same circumstances

come to sight.

When certain creatures command your credentials,

demanding daily objects,

you’re unable to deliver.

There is no assurance - no cure for the kids cancer.

              No guarantee the treacherous removal of the mass

                      won’t kill its host, or regrow rapidly.

So my patience fled,

Sweetest Heaven.

 I set my alarm for six,

             but hit the snooze till seven.

Sometimes sleep is the

Identity

 The fear of change travels through character.

On occasion, I fear who I will become.

What if I turn into someone unlike me?

Clean

 Kid,

people are breaking their backs

      for those dollar bills you’re breathing

                                up your nose.

Awake, unaware,

         I stare

out the glassy window screen.

Where have you been?

(Where have you bean?) He quips.

His shoes, unclean,

       boots to bear the brunt

       of a days hard work.

So I stare him up and down like a jerk.

What are you doing at my door?

        I find my insecurity lying on the floor.

Befuddled- begging to ask

        about your falling mask

                             of sobriety.

Why do I? Oh, why do I support your special type of negligence? 

                  It’s been six months since we last spoke…

                                  The ode to muddy boots-

Hey man, here’s a buck if you’re down on your luck.

I’m curious, does he think I don’t know?

                                        I can’t see?

                                       A dusty nose-
                            rail thin- skin and bones.

Boy, when’s the last time you had a decent meal?

I pull you in-

                  for a second

                                      let’s get real.

Have you seen yourself lately?

                                       Tell me, what’s the deal?

Seems to always be

                  - some girl broke your heart.

He takes a bite of broccoli and begins

               to sing his sad love song once again.

Empty plate filled again,

       starving for a future he will never see

                             without the ability

                             to keep his nose

I’m Keeping It.

 We spend so much time focused on what we’re not,

and what we can be that we lose focus on what we are.

We never get through the ideas of the past to become who we are.

(Sometimes we don’t even know who we are.)

Often we are career oriented on goals achieved.

Well, what is the measure of success?

As a pet parent,

I find myself the most successful

when I’m able to get a sick or dying animal to take medication. Interesting how that has nothing to do with my career.

There’s something about benevolence,

and they need to be good that we get lost in.

-We completely forget we do it.- (We do good.)

Sometimes we don’t even realize we’re good.

I can say for certain some of us don’t realize how good we truly are.

Talent isn’t just a scale we’ve perfected.

It’s also the blackest magic of getting a baby cottontail

to drink formula from a syringe.

There’s a reason why they called babies miracles-

because they are…

Even if they’re bunnies.

Think for a second about all the magic you can make happen every day. It may be mundane, but all the same…

That company who kept you

when your friend called and asked you to come over,

could’ve very well saved their life.

You are more than you can see.

Listen,

I don’t let a blind eye turn to me.

I walk away.

There is no value in the endeavors of the opinionated man.

All they are able to do is project, deflect, and defect.

We have the power to accept that principles exist,

and they may not belong to us.

It’s an incentive to say,

“Hey, I am not astray.”

But let me tell you,

if I find a lost puppy,

An Amazing Man.

 Sliding down the sidewalk I see

the feathers of a seagulls wings.

    A bit of bloody bone attached.

Is this an omen of what the future brings?

     Everything ahead,

                     all the seas of blind ambition

                                and I’ll be here a-wishin’

                                       I was a-sinkin’

                                       into an emotional

                                       couch of comfort,