The air your lips used to warm
as you'd breathe into mine,
has become too cold
from the space
you left between us.


Now,
I warm my own air
with flames
set from the peelings
of a burning heart
you threw away
in a rusted can.


I don't remember winter ever being so cold.

Warm laundry gives me the
fuzzies, makes my hands grasp
   majestic purple soaps
to cleanse away the ***** wails
compacted under fingernails
A selection of smell good things
lotions accompanied by fuzzy things
to rub away and radiate the aura
of calm, balance, and tranquility
Lavender is condusive to many
different uses, inhaling the graces
of herbal essence, soothing said coolings
inducing mood peelings of layers of grime
a skin liberative—figuratively speaking
Flowers of passion brew thoughts into actions
silent buds permeating scents
   so invigoratingly innocent

Start and stop
Up the street,
Turn 180,
Repeat the beat.
The gurus on
Confessional wheels,
Absolve our sins,
Emptying bins.
I swear
They swear
A solemn oath
Never to
Disclose the truth
Found in our garbage
By the brethern,
Garbage stinking
To high heaven.
Bottles, syringes,
Boxes, bones,
Peelings, plastics,
Old cell phones,
Discarded trash
From our homes.
Wrappings bleeding
Seeping ****:
*By our garbage
Ye shall know us.

Tell me, Gentlemen:
while you soared higher than your fears and dreams could ever reach, into the blue crystal infinity,
did you hear the voices of angels echoing off the wings of geese migrating south for the winter?
how did it feel,
fighting for a nation that measured your worth in disheveled water fountains, mop buckets, dust rags, and potato peelings,
defending stars and stripes stained with the same molten white abhorrence smeared on ******* bombers?
did it hit you like a G force?
when you climbed into that cockpit, audaciously red, the blood rushing to your head, was it bitter hand fulls of cherries sweet?
when you returned home through back doors and alleyways to face an Uncle Sam with burning crosses in his eyes,
when you stood curbside at your own homecoming parade feeling confetti and streamers tickle the bridges of your noses,
tell me how it felt, Gentlemen.
will my brothers and sisters who fight only for tennis shoe wealth, understand the worth of those medals on your scarlet blazers?
if I listen hard enough to those jets breaking the sound barrier will I hear your story?
tell me, Gentlemen,
what was it like to fly?
infinite respects,
Curlie Fries Mcgee

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
        coupling the ends of streets
        to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
        put out the neon shapes
        that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
        Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
        From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
        detail upon detail,
        cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
        (Where it has slowly grown
        in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
        trembles and stands again,
        pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
        "Boom!" and the exploding ball
        of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
        turn in their sleep and feel
        the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
        Along the street below
        the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers.  The water dries
        light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
        of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
        scattered or grouped cascades,  
        alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
        you will dine well
        on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
        Scourge them with roses only,
        be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
        whose face is turned
        so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted.  No.  I mean
        distorted and revealed,
        if he sees it at all.

*

Fishing out words
From the abyss of hum -
Like Odin with the Runes...
Thoughts are sharp swords -
Unfriendly are their croons:
One instant - scattering like crumbs,
Another - warbling in tune

With mixed emotions
And elusive feelings...
Oh, how disheartening sometimes! -
Unveiling their peelings...

(c)kRu, 07.02.-09.02.06

She stared blankly at the computer screen
With its flickering screen of judgement.

What are you looking at?

Silence. A screensaver.

Enough of that sass.

It was finally complete.

Her hair wearing its disheveled frizz like a badge of honor
From all-night typing
And two pots of coffee
Where her comb-fingers turned the smoothness of her hair
Into a stress-reliever
As she muttered madly to herself
(But quietly, so as not to wake the roommates
Who slumbered in their honey chambers
Away from the heart of her hive of activity).

She had buzzed all night
On a caffeine-high
That made her hands tremble
Her muscles ache
And her eyes hate her.

And now

With too much to do
And a limited time to do it in
She had to keep buzzing.
Coffee *** number three was carefully stored
In a travel mug
That she clutched to her clavicle
Just to keep the warmth that much closer to her hyped-up heart.

She made her stops at offices and libraries
Retrieving promised letters
And printing the labors of her night intensive
Before she could finally deposit it
Behind the glass windows
Of the scholarship office.

This is too much work for less-than-ideal odds.

But she had no time to dwell
On the gamble she had made
And paid in hours of wakefulness
And the inked-up peelings from tree corpses.
She rushed from class to class
Where she tried to speak in coherent sentences,
To dance with sharp choreography,
And to contribute to society
But her body hated her
Because she had betrayed it
And deprived it of the only thing that it truly loved in this world:
Sleep.

It would have its vengeance.
It would have its vengeance when she was old, creaky, and could no longer move.
But for now, her body made do with small rebellions
To demonstrate its displeasure.
Sentences were not sentences
And every turn, leap, and twist
Made her think longingly of sleep.
And her body laughed.

But at long last,
The sun set
The girl slept
And then the sun rose.

And this continued to happen
Many times.
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
It rose and it set

Until she had forgotten
And her body had forgiven
The sleepless night.

I extolled them as they went about their
Menial tasks in suits of silk;
Sunday bests amidst the concrete, the earth,
The broken shards of
Bamboo splintered skin, hiding interiors
                          And further, the broken mirrors of
                          The broken memories of the
                          Broken histories upon the
                          Broken backs become names wrought ancient.
Though further from fractured, a family calls,
Beholden to the absolute intent, but one wish –
Eternity amongst the bountiful brethren left behind
Atop tea-brimmed Mountains and a
One malevolent, revered benevolent,
Mao.

One more saga prerequisite this newer dynasty red –
                          Witness the
                          Wives huddled plowshares,
                          The daughter scribbled arithmetic
                          And sons assumed thrones to legacy.

I scrutinize soiled  – smoke amid pear peelings,
The dirtied – unscathed and archaic,
So very fatigued – just one more nail,
For his eternity, with scratch and
Sliver of blood, a sanctity upon chin
                          Beyond cradled hammer,
                          Hand hugging thumb,
                          Thumb beyond nail, iron or the
                          Heart impaled homesick;
But I and hand asserting tie, freshly pressed,
Almost gleaming with an embezzled prestige –
Born unto Arcadia, a puzzle near complete
Continued to run, with only second’s pause to admire,
So very far from the fields of, “father,” or first blink,
While Sunday’s best weep, work and wither.

This man with joint autographed, “end,” and
                          Soon to be mound, history wrought dust,
                          A chipped Henan ceramic
                          And hours in attempt to breach;
                          Behold the back of Chen.

*The title of this piece was inspired by observing constructions workers wearing suits we'd typically wear for an interview. That being said, my venture in China is near an end - years in the making. What's next? Ecuador? Japan? Morocco? Montana? Either way, I could never thank China enough for all that'd become naked before I and my pilgrimage christened, "world."

.               her **** sprinkled spine.
                her blackened fingertips from a day cleaning and smoking in
                the pre-spring heat.
                her knife atop the stump.

memory is the root of mankind’s trouble.

                  lullabies  
                  her mother used to sang,
                  as the fish gasped and to the bone.
                  
wilderness, a strange enchanted girl.
              
            her bioluminescent tent.
            her blackened beans and tortilla-leaves and peelings of cheese.
            her knife to whittle a twig.

her moments grow like gardens left alone to ghost-over.
to sample the city wilderness
& then slip further away into a rearview idea.
new republic.

                  paradise. she’s up that trail there.

Is it Strange

Is it strange that when I look at you all I see is the black and blue
All the hatred that once filled you seems to melt away when you look at her
Recall the times
Kicks and punches the smirks as bitter as limes
I see you,
I see you now laughing as if nothing has ever happened
Is is strange that people don't know the real him
The child that would expose me in a second if he had the chance
The one who wouldn't dare say his feelings
The one who would throw his peelings in delight and content
If it meant he had to move from his placing he would refuse
Amuse the others around you with all of my flaws
Do you know I'm here
Is it strange that you have so many friends when you won't even bother to make the mends of the others who have left
Leave them falling behind in their own blood and tears
Cause I beg of you,
Look in the mirrors
I have fallen in love so many times
That love ,
That love quickly faded as you shove me down those cold stairs
That love that never really had its chance
That love that was always pushed down by thousands of emotions and nonexistent sadness that you are filled with
Is it strange I am sent home to cry yet you go with your happiness set high
All the words ever said
All truth has fled
I lie in my bed
I wonder
I wonder if you remember me
Ah, she...
Braces and that big smile
Full with denial of this terrible world
She just twirled and kept on walking
Quite the dreamer
Is it strange that now all the dreams have been ****** away
Her luck is now fading
Is it strange she used to to cut
Shut out by everyone in her mind
She now dresses darkly
She thinks all eyes are looking towards her
Disapproval
Is it strange,
Is it strange we have both changed
A quick glance in the hall
Extended leg to fall
Now, if hit by a playground ball she could simply break
Is it strange she is now a snowflake
So delicate
To land on a mitt
Quickly melt away in shyness
Falling slowly to her death
Is it strange that the girl now sits
She sits alone typing away
Is it strange that I see that boy
Only every day

I sat down once,
Got up two thousand times
Sent little parts of me
like peelings into perfect skies.

I want to turn this sorry heart
Into thumb tacks. Push pins with which I’ll affix
Each sky in a book: vast, picturesque
And bring it to you, an emotional chart.

And we’ll review it with failing eyes
With ancient fingers and mouths in Oh’s
This catalog of a lifetime’s art
Remembering again what each perfect sky knows.

drain full of peelings
broken plunger & unwashed dishes
drops sprinkle from the sky
yesterday hail
leached peas and golfballs cracked
hitting windows
perhaps reflection
back to the hills
to find freshness somehow
crusts too old to chew the grains
birds quiet in the autumnal wash
preparing for another outing of art
therapy.
ginger, shallot, chilli & chicken
rice later
something for the blood which
pumps & beats & never stops
till words release and a
semblance of peace arrives

Those saying they gave all gave nothing. 

No one knows she's crying for me. 

With trashhbags spilling from their pockets, the children weep as the men enter their silent temple. 

With potatoes in their hands and bricks on their heads, the women wait for the husbands. 

As priests they exit. All normal patterns again. 

I will separate these teeth from your heart as you scan my newest story. 

I've lost your wonder. Why everything is the same as it was remains a mystery. 

Why these eyes, this heart of mine, why not hers?

Hate simmers. Nothing cooks below. 

One more tin of cream. One more song repressed. A wife with her matchbook terrors. Skin pale, coupons clipped to save heart the extraneous cost. 

Out of the door the lesbians begin their drinking games. 

Smile of mine tell me more meets the eye. Look at the hearts and the pressing of its meats. 

Rearrange the peelings. 

Masculinity transmits over the air. I use this time to soften my bellly. 

The noose catches fire. His tears dousing the freedom. 

First date at theater. Curtain call, begin Love's Final Act. 

The death of you in pieces against rocks. 

Reading for signs of traumatized marrow assuming it is not. 

Warnings of obsession and secrecy as I pollute the sabretooth's mouth. 

My vacation shortened. Flying and seeing the dreams of next time whipping past. 

Coarse hair on my tongue. Trails of you when I speak. 

When will you fade? Love is dead. Let it pass. 

The figure and the ridge shake me. Alone counting how the years have not healed this scar. 

A day. And then a night erased from memory. 

While he speaks I'm told to stop sending letters. 

May the lines become thinner. The hush universal. 

A quiet time. Seen in the sun for the first time. 

Continue reading of deeds snared by Karma. 

Restore yourself for my benefit. 



And so this is the poison she poured into my ears:

 whisper whisper kiss. 


Of the poison what is there holding the vials together?

Machine cut squares knowing the curves of her *******. 

Pressed, brushed to perfection. Where is the warmth beyond the warmth?

Not the glow of nocturnal furnaces. The pressing of skin to the belly of coals. 

Only a mask hiding tears from the public eye. 

It is what you seek. 

Ignite me and marvel alone. 

Explain my scars to me in final excitement. 

On one shoulder I collect the rain. My other brings the spillings. The pool at my feet dries, gathers flies. 

My eyes never closed. My muscles began to shiver and this is all that can be said of last year. 


This year will be dosed heavy with dreams. 


The telephones will soon empty thief wife's of our conversations. 

New dust and **** will cover the bricks our hands feathered over. 

Plates we consumed our dreams on will break, become clean and discarded with the closing of cafe doors. 

You dying and older. Increasing desire. Your basket full of fruit. Your soil toiled in the night. Roots taken, their precious hollows filled. 

Damaged Boardwalk. Mussels cracked, pearl less by design or circumstance. 

Fake both hope and love. Slip away in the pilings of some Ferrari. 

The ash of your candle. Where is it now?

So close to the sea. Yet these stains remain. 

Burn or transgress. Your stones sink in my heart. 

An open letter since birth. 

The barge floats. The operators celebrate the river's damming. 


May you hear my tears in your happy silence.


Just a leaf in the sidewalk. Talks of saplings vanished in the processing. 

Here together in the colder air. 

Forgetful muse, run. Steal their wrestling's warmth. 

The swell beckons. We've yet to share this drink. 

Taste yourself on this raw plate. Fight and move away mediocrity. 


Few lover's sons left. 


Pick your battles from the bag with your boots and that picture of the lion escaping its cage whilst I fell into yours. 

Is there anything else or is this less than what you wanted?

Rude for noting your thinning soles and the leather's scars.

Hard to consider compensation for this blood you've been given. Diseased congealing life force. 

Awake and celebrating with me the people you've left. On this shore, this glimpse of Hell. 

Tossing and turning farther away from refuge. 

Mildewing pamphlets of my red and white memories. All the paintings we're without. 

Hack off my feet and keep me close. I float. Your hauntings with delusions of bliss. 

This is foolish, my pride in the envelope and later the shells. 

Every beacon a reminder to swim farther. Sirens witness my solace.  

Choking back wallows and whispers.

May Neptune weep as I fail in his righteousness. 


Into God's own heart I nestle. Finding rest eternally. 


Young Dracula, stop circling and take me.

Mamma found him in his cage while I was away
At Jordan Ray’s
Talons up, feathers flat

.

Dearest neglect of Joey the bird
Lived in a pink cage,
Grew bright green feathers with a light blue spot on his shoulder.
Sister bought him at a mall cart,
Saved him, it seemed,
But now it’s clear that his fate was condemned
A live heart beat quick in hollow bones

.

From Jordan’s I rushed,
Hurried to confirm the news of my mother’s text:
“Joey died. You need to come home and clean your room”
Warm hearts beat cold in the blaze of August morning

Mamma, I found, she put him in the trash
Like a piece of pie with one bite taken
I found him lain upon heaps of pear peelings
Doomed in line to decompose
Among the **** and waste of the world

I picked him up

Placed him into a small shoe box

“Come on, Joey bird, lay in here”

It’s warm and dry and safe

Joey lay there, patient and dead
I took him in the yard
Out of the room he’d been in
Since sister brought him home

I found him a tree to chirp in, great oak

I placed his box on the grass and dug
Dug
Dug until I went beneath some roots
…
Kept digging
Unearthing pebbles and insect homes
Disheveling years of dirt and order

.

The heat of the day was boiling on my swelling soul
How could mother throw him in the trash?
Was he not alive; a thing? As much a miracle as you or me?
And my sister, his keeper, was not there to witness

Finally joey fit right
Fit just where he needed to be
The base of a great oak tree

Whose roots would **** him in
Like the lump in my heart did
With every scoop of soil
Like the love missed in life that joey died without

.

That was the first day I hated my mother
That was the first time I missed my sister
That was the only life I’ve ever mourned

this language your forcing me to speak
is clouding my judgement at peak
i have trouble translating my feelings
i feel like you never listen, like theyre just peelings
i cannot speak my feeling in my own language
let alone this huge emotional baggage
no one ever told me i wouldnt be able to talk
that my mouth is just something on a stalk
my feeling are a bag of trash
not metaphorically but litarly are mashed
no ice cream can sooth this enough
i told him speaking another language is tough

remember days before food waste,

scraps for  dog,  cat maybe

some pig.



sitting until my plate was clear,



hash. tag rationing.



peelings were taken down

the garden by the rhubarb buckets

or

aunt olive made wine from that

with tea dregs.



he came every other day, pig man as

it was acceptable in those days.



when

there was no food waste .       mum

darned socks



sbm.

It is in the times when you actually think of something to write that nothing comes
And you're stuck listening to the rain falling outside and on the roof
Trying to decipher what it wants to say, you hold out your palms
Inviting the cold smooth droplets of water into your senses.
Or perhaps you create a story about the smell of orange peelings caught in your fingers
Or maybe compose a song about your neighbor's dog,
But still everything is the same as the previous day
Except for the chili beef noodles and a cup of hot coffee you had this morning
Nothing changed, except the urge and want to write something.

Maybe i don't talk much
Maybe m off a kind or such
Maybe i don't hold that touch,&
Maybe m duffer as much
But,
The words i speak carry feelings and who likes to talk about their feelings?, the kind i bear have healings who's into crystals ,who's into peelings, confident i am but that if u wander around all i bound is to a zero,
Duffer i am i know but with you, all i grasp that someday u gonna call me ur hero

The shards of green glass scatter
About the dusty floor
Ancient messages escape
From the bottle that is no more

Whispers of tales as old as time
Start making their way across
The old man's map, their origins marked
In forests cloaked in moss.

Murmurs fill every crack in the wall
With stories from drunken lips
Of pirates, Kings, mermaids, & ghosts
And giant whales swallowing ships.

Through wallpaper peelings & under floorboards
The messages twist and turn
And as the sun rises, they head for the door
To the bottle they'll never return.

It's one of those unmistakable feelings
Like something's been woken up, deep inside
Only something deep within potato peelings
Vastly changing within whom it might reside
Everybody deserves to have their taste
Maybe some can even drink forever
Every drop must be drunk and not turn to waste
Halting negative thoughts to return never!
And perhaps it's just my dreaming ways
Yet I feel this down deep in my heart
Like the Hopeful I am, I walk in rose haze
And hope that someday to close the distance we're apart

Although I am capable it is still not the same,

while I can still fall, feeling will never again sustain,

the aftermath of such a complex question,

leaves nothing behind but lost affection,

present’s dream is future’s longing,

only the ocean’s waves are reliably calming,

though these eyes of mine have all but closed,
this small hidden ***** remains posed,

rhythmic pulses of shattered feelings, 

bring ashore nothing but my soul’s peelings,

and as the sun calms the waves,
 my unexplored path continuously paves.

I hear,
These noises at night
Voices that write
Choices that aren't right

I'm near,
The edge, looking down
The ledge, mustn't frown
The edge, looking at the ground

I fear,
What's left for me to give
We met for us to live
What's left beyond cliff

Before you
I saw so clear
I endure you
For the longest year

Tell me anything I want to hear
Sell me everything I want my dear
Keep the counter open
And yet so much deeper have we sunken

Started as a floating heap
Floating to the face that is so steep
Wrote things as I start to leap
Crack my heart on the rocks below
Smashed apart on the rocks that have grown
Made a start on the rocks that I know
Broke my heart on the rocks that I show
Myself to
My feelings to
My health to
My left over peelings to.

Sharing times together alone
Parting to find another whose grown
Tearing what's mine for her to overthrow
Only need a caring mind to get her on your own

I act kind
I don't mind
Let you unwind
You're unkind
I need time
I lead you to my mind
I feed you on what we find
I need you to be mine

I hear these voices at night
They're for you
They make things a little brighter

It's as if my mind awakens
Only when I try to sleep
Everything stirs and is shaken
And into my eyes seep:

The constellations, the films, the merging and surging feelings
The words, the songs, the sensations and conversation peelings
They build and build: piles of molten wax
When all I want is my body and mind to just relax.

Like static, the thoughts do nothing but build and charge
Like in a growing balloon, the exerted forces get so **** large
Pressure in balloons is what we learn in school
Pressure in my mind is what I learn in my sleep pool.

By Arcassin Burnham

The city of angels won't pull you out of reality,
The peelings of your skin that brushes mine
To band together with a force that the demons
Couldn't overthrow if they could or would take
Over the millions of brains that record memory
That forces demonic empathy upon the weak
And defenseless,
Let's ,
Be careful with overbearing sessions of being
Jealous of one another by default and ones
Short comings,
I swear I seen this coming.

Slowly
I will unveil you
Like the peelings
an onion,
bittersweet juices
flowing with each
layer

I will,
as if a handmaiden,
Be there
To remove
the armor
of your battles
Ceremony-like,
In gentleness,
without hurting you
and lead you to the bath.

I will coax you out
Like a delicate stamen
From the petals
That surround your
Aching heart.

If you retreat
I will give you some space
For I know that
You will come to me
Like a fragile night creature
Afraid of the sun
I will persuade you
To check the air
To realize that your secrets
Are safe with me

I will encourage
You to come forth
And take you
Into my arms
No matter what
secrets you hold
Whether dark,
twisted  or lost
I can take it
For my heart is warm
And I am wise beyond my years
Come now, hush
Let me help you
Release your fears

I have done it,
brought myself to pass over.
I bleed farewell to my lover,
she has hated seeing signs,
but best she begin benign
and untold untruth undone,
her life relieved and vows unsown,
I reset,

I have done it,
ended the line of my inherited sin,
the trials and trips my parents did begin,
the one and only son they did depend,
my blood spills forth funneled as the pen,
bad blood bleeds first from within,
not to forget.

I have done it,
grip on your world is fading,
I say farewell to my home to trappings
of this past and mortal beating,
I smile at my release of things,
of being unleashed from the peelings,
do not fret.

I have done it,
my fiendish brain is shot
on the blue starry wall and blots
on this read and written page,
let go of ego and thoughts
and again forever not
spin the vile traitorous plots,
nor burn fires of lecher’s knavish fraught,
no regrets.

I have done it,
new eyes cast over the old shell
rise from the ashes of a living hell,
blood dries whence did well,
winds scatter bones to sail,
I feel the light call my fast reveille,
my fire is set.

I have done it,
our world before me set right,
torch within me shines the light
new fire, new blood burns with might
of death’s refresh that hath smite
the depressed, and risen the phoenix bright,
  to reincarnate.

Little one when the Cuckoo calls
And the roof shivers with tiny feet
You snuggle in so close
I can’t exaggerate the heat
Of love .

Ten pink toes peep from your gown
I look at your fingers Summer brown
And the curls on your head turning
Round like golden apple peelings
And we smile .

Love Mary xxxx

-

I accepted this
portion of a

@-#)~"—?—"~(#-@


(conjured surely
from some black
cauldron)

And With Respect—

My mouth opened
wide enough
in the attempt
to finish the
whole thing raw
with a single bite–

but instead,
I grabbed one crumb
between incisors,

tugged
and tugged
until It tumbled
out of my mouth
and onto the arm
of the porch swing–

bounced and then
dropped
           between
                         cracks
amongst peelings of
old paint and then
into the funnel of
an Ant-Lion,

who thought it had
the catch of the day,
pulled It in,
bit into It–
went sour-faced

(as if it could)

and spat It back out
where It continued
into a wormhole
downwards
inwards
&
side-wards
inside out
through
multi colored
celestial
milky-ways—

bumping into a  
plastic spoon
spinning end
over end
along a
Mobius Strip orbit
between the
Rings of Saturn,
where It shall
                          (hopefully)
reside
For  Ever—

(Expansive Ten-Fingered
"E" chords played upon
Three Grand Pianos)

Finis
            Coronat  
                              Opus...

­

s jones
2021


.

My imagination once had more than  four walls
      It had 7 and 11 and 99 and 10
                  But this is now
                And that was then
My heart once had more than 2 ceilings
It had more than just mixed up feelings
                 But this is now
          Left a shell of outer peelings

  My smile once knew true happiness
           I can hardly remember when
              Forgotten how I got to this
                  But its still now
                     And never then