Yes, it Actually Happened

When I was alone,

I heard you speak to me

in every song the hospital radio played.

I've done the best I can,

I won't be here tomorrow,

sometimes goodbye is a second chance.

It wasn't ours,

it was a goodbye

to a set of circumstances

that grew old.

I honestly thought my life was over,

just a whisper in my ear,

all I could remember was trying to take my life.

I didn't even realize I was still alive,

so imagine not knowing your spirit still thrives

in your, living, breathing body.

I mourned myself,

became someone else,

first afraid, then bitter,

and every kind of person imaginable

but eventually stronger.

I wanted to go, needed to go

sick of swimming against the current;

letting my delusions drown me with fear,

anxiety, depression,

the feeling of being trapped in myself,

the surreal version of the world I saw,

and still see sometimes today.

Let's bring back some bad memories

of actions with no explanations,

was I just dreaming?

I couldn't sleep,

I could never sleep. 

So, how could that be?

No Matter How Deep You Dig

Grandma removed her face

last night before she went to bed.

It may have been a dream,

but she took it off as naturally

as she would her dentures

or hearing aids.

What was beneath the skin?

Nothing frightening,

but something I found

somewhat beautiful instead.

I found myself asking her

to take it off in an attempt

to better know what was underneath.

Raw and vulnerable to the elements,

with the ability to become dry and cracked.

Everything under that mask of skin
had become too familiar

with the seasons of this world

and the people in it.

The lesson learned;
at some point it's too late to
get to know a person.

Smaller than my Own Pinky

When I was still a single digit,

one summer my father found

a baby bird fallen

out of an evergreen.

My failed attempt to rescue

the tiny bird,

smaller than my pinky

is still an emotional upset

I do my best to make up for

with every life I save;

a dog at one end of my couch,

a mischief at the other,

a rabbit down the hall

beyond the kitchen

at the end of the stairway

where my basement belongs.

All at one point,

smaller than my pinky

but each a life worth saving, 
because even I once was.

Transience

You pour your soul
into a world that someday
won't remember you.

You come
sing your song
and dance
your job is done.

Live your life to disappear
but enjoy it while you're here.

Take a deep breath
and some day
let your life go in a
dizzying sigh.

Something Like a Sonata

Listening to the crackling dust on a record

has me wishing I could have composed

a waterfall of keys that tap the strings

aggressively,

sadly,

sometimes even peacefully.

It's Okay

Dreams are the matter

we are made of

when our existence

feels like an illusion. . .

Sometimes we seem

to tell ourselves;

it's all just a bad dream,

it'll all be over soon.

I wonder sometimes

if I'll ever wake up

when there's nothing to touch

to make us feel the same

as we did before we broke.

The good news is

we've never been broken for good

and if we have to be

at least we're stranded on

shattered island together. . .

Right?

Another Set of Shoes

I've been given a debatable mind,

really,

sometimes it's debatable

as to whether or not it's even a mind at all,

but it thinks,

it even speaks for itself.

Either way,

it's all about perspective,

a sense of persuasion.

Even in a messy mind like mine,

the ability to see,

yourself,

be seen,

and see through others

in a way that maybe you've never seen

may keep you from getting hung up

on that one line you couldn't stand to see,

but instead see the story for its entirety.

Let the story live and die like us

and try fighting for the other side

once in a while with the intention

of sliding inside someone else's mind.

Equally

There are certain poets

I can't help but hate,

really, self righteous

indignant losers.

Yelling as if their anger and

emotional uprising is more than

just an adult temper tantrum

and somehow means more,

or is super special in comparison

than anything you've ever been through.

Boasting about like

they're all that matters,

and only ever write about themselves,

their problems

and how they've been mistreated again.

Sure, my opinion may be unpopular,

and I'd usually stay in silence, always,

so be ready to be offended, because

sometimes it just needs to be said. . .

I get so sick of hearing

angry women complain in slam poetry

about how they're pissed off

because some loser wasn't man enough

to hold the door for them,

only to turn around in the same poem

to say they don't get treated equally.

Let me explain something darling,

if you don't want an open door,

stop expecting one,

it sounds to me as if

he's treating you exactly how you wanted.

Say it Again and Again and Again

I often wonder

if anyone worried about me,
if anyone had any words of wisdom
that I was never able to listen to
because I was too busy
trying to be those words
for myself or someone else.

How much did I miss
while I was preoccupied,
laboring with a thought
that lingered longer
than it ever should have?

I wish I could have you repeat
the words to me,
anything you ever wanted to say
but in the end, much was said
and not enough heard.

We missed our opportunity.

Who am I talking to?

Those who cared
that I tossed your feelings aside
like children do broken toys,
but you meant everything to me
and you never stopped to make me listen.

You gave up on me.

Do You Have a Death Wish?

To those who envy death,

do you count it as a wish

or a desire?

Is it that you'd like to see

the lives you've touched

or is it desperate plea

to get away?

Why do you want so bad

to see what others feel the need

to say after you've gone away?

You know,

if they don't say it

while the life runs through your blood

then they probably don't mean it

when the life runs out.