Burn me -
everything I have:
my lungs, my body,
my soul, my sanity

Engulf me in your flames -
along with my all:
my memories, my sorrow,
my happiness, my tomorrows

Leave me in ruins -
among ashes,
among matches,
and an empty cigarette packet.

tho summertime,
he lets his hair grow long

when he wakes,
mirror just laughs,
a volcanic holy hell headed revealed,
forehead flopping, ear covering,
an unruly mess,
as a secondary metaphor,
holy insufficient

and a man does what a man can do

turns both old fashioned porcelains,
medium luke gusher eruptor is cupped,
with a two handed utensil,
a couple of scoopings
he turn faded blonde grey,
wet jet black for awhile enough

and a man does what a man can do

with less than a handful of brush strokes,
straight back they lie,
and suppressed for awhile,
but he doesn't think
"boy it's good to be a man"

no,

he study's the mirror's new reaction,
when his Cain forehead mark,
is now readily seen,
most gasp or look away,
poor mirror is fixed
and thus,
transfixed, frozen

what he thinks is this:

"good,
let the world see,
know, who I am,
and how I am marked
my holy hell is continuous,
unforgivable, deserved"
(he made her abort their baby)

but the mirror,
a simpatico old friend,
thinks the splashes will hide
his fresh tears,
but the man knows better,
yet, loves his mirror friend,
truthful image reflected,
even more for it

Life ...... death... how hard it must be
to only see what we have.
To never cry or feel, to only feed this darkness.
Like a seed, to grow up, but just once
Is it a mere ideological dream I have
Or is it more
To rid myself of this dream....this dream I call life

I am no stranger to pain,
let's be real, who is?
Everyone has their own trials and tribulations
to overcome.
Overcoming is the key part, though.
Pain, whether it be
a second, minute, hour, day, or even a year,
is very much so
temporary.
Quitting and giving up lasts
forever.
Just knowing this isn't enough,
as my inner circle would tell you,
I'm as guilty as they come with losing hope.

Even when my hands are calloused from digging,
and the hot sun baked my skin, boiling my blood,
I feel cold,
distant,
alone.
That is, I did, then along came some friends.
Who saw something in me that I'm still not sure exists,
pulled me out of that hole, ripped that shovel from my hands.
I'm not going to sit here and lie to you,
it hasn't all been unicorns and rainbows,
as I occasionally stumble back into that hole.
But each and every time,
those same hands reach down and pull me back out.
Isolation doesn't show strength, but an inability to be weak.

Americano in the sun
So delightful
I think I'll have another one