A bump and a bruise,
a trip and a scrape.
I can no longer wear my cape
or be the hero you so choose.
I drink my tea,
leg-up on display.
I cannot feel THOSE toes
much to my dismay.
An open gown,
I am bound.
I frown at what could be
me
is not what I see.
A part of me lost
in aimless injury.
And the hunt for who to be
grants me the right to let go.
I can not follow
you home tonight
I must go.
There are certain worries in life
you need to walk far from.
People, places, points in time;
words which stick,
people who pick,
substance abuse,
the constant misuse
of a good-natured being.
Devices do linger,
the pointed finger
of mishaps and miscreants.
Guilt-
a wilted flower goes to seed.
A deed to bury
and root over sins
of dirt, earth,
and the will to be beautiful.
I wander out into
the vast world of nothingness
and find substance
in the void of broken minds.
Find myself wishing
I could be more like graffiti,
leave my impression,
paint the town,
fade into the next.
A vandal of vocabulary
interceding internal dialogue
for the sake of a single sentiment.
Snivel,
feel hurt,
broken
and bitter as usual.
Find happiness
in simple substance,
a rat
around the corner
mops up tears.
Weary and woken
to unspoken woes
and worry
of wrongdoings.
Make ELEPHANTS
out of ME!
Send them-
marching DOWN,
spiraling around
my mapped out mind.
So the power
of the mind
can be so unkind,
when a heart's in doubt-
unable to sort anything out.
The infinite zipper,
a concept of coming together forever.
Never ending-
meticulous bending,
joining of wire.
The desire to be free
from monotony.
An ominous cloud,
cooling you off on a scorching day.
Relief with the grief
of a thunder strike,
dawning your need
to recede into the zipper.
I erase myself in pointless endeavors.
Traveling along the print on a page,
my picture, my name,
stain your memory with disdain.
I erase myself from your history-
belonging nowhere in time or space.
Existing to trace a face from a familiar place-
disappearing from hometowns and high schools.
I have no childhood
but a red mask
of rosy reminiscent sin.
Nostalgia paints the way to melancholy,
and the only escape
is to allow yourself to be erased.
A bigot's tale is tall,
wide and vast.
It encumbers an infinite mass,
blankets the earth in black and white.
Weakens the strong,
blurries the difference
between right and wrong.
Eliminates equity,
the fight,
and the right to belong.
A bigot's agenda is read, told,
said and sold by familiar faces
in your favorite places,
even public spaces.
When I'm alone,
it's like freedom
in my disconnected space.
Chasing down
dead air radio static.
I wash out his essence
for the last time.
Love written on open windows-
on lines-
sun fades its intimate messages.
I bask in His sun,
transparent,
a place where I find your trace.
Interlacing fingers in my dark space,
sonny, I know your face.
The sun rises without (me),
casting shadows on the surface
of an expanding universe.
Troubled turns to windowed daylight,
she speaks to the world
through breath and fog on the glass.
It disappears to nothing.
It's everything we have,
the air in our lungs
and each other.
A foggy vision of you in each sunset,
a reason to see sunrise tomorrow.
You're a tainted fortune,
filled with the glory
of fables and fairy tales.
A hidden treasure of shams
and charlatan hero-princes
on filthy white horses.
Deliver me from wicked witches
then lock me in your
enchanting bell tower:
Where I'll find my escape
from the sympathy
given to phony saviors.