And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical *******.
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.

But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.

The door in my mind
Has been locked for a very long time;
Probably from the smoke drifting
From the alter I've built to my misgivings

There are tally marks on my stomach
Counting how many times I just stopped
Caring,
And I feel my chest turn to stone
With every breath.

Sometimes I wonder what the fear
Of a storm at sea feels like,
And if it's anything similar
To the paralysis I feel when
Someone is screaming.

There are days when I wish
I could speak in color.

When a shiver goes down my spine,
I wonder what you're saying about
Me.

Maybe life was just an accident God made
When playing with dolls

Sometimes I wish everything made sense,
And that my mind wasn't so faceted
And tangled like string
But maybe Everything is a jigsaw puzzle
With missing pieces.

Maybe we're not supposed to understand.

Or maybe there's not anything we're supposed
To do.
Maybe life is screaming and color and a storm
At sea.

Maybe God is still playing with dolls.

When I am old
And crows feet tickle the corners of my eyes
And silver parts the waters of my hair

When my knees crack like thunder
And my ankles somehow know it's going to rain

When my mind starts to slip
Like a camera out of focus
Or maybe like the water damaged photographs
In the attic

When I am ancient and beautiful
In the sunset years of my existence,
I hope to have achieved a life
Where I didn't fear walking through a war
For some semblance of peace.

You once said that home was wherever you make it

I found my home in the comfort of our secret language
And the way you knew when I needed to run
And the way I knew the meaning behind every syllable
In your music

I remembered your birthday
You forgot mine
But that's alright

Our relationship has been stretched hamstrings
Since you've been gone,
And these songs are the hollow boneyard
I fumble through

Melodies
Strings of smoke
Slipping through my hands

You're missing Christmas

I'm missing your life

Sometimes I wonder if you remember the brother stars
And the trees
And the whales we sang about in the kitchen
And the mulberry pen ink

Sometimes I wonder if you remember me
As the shore you greeted each morning
When you rolled in

If the whisper of these words
Ever carry through the wind
And reach you
Please take this and know
That the shore will still be there
When your wave washes in

I will still be here
Singing

Your hands are probably cold
Holding that "Anything Helps" sign

At least I hope it's the chill shaking them

Sitting at this glaring red light watching you;
Waiting while this red light is judging me,
Condemning me as I squander time
Sizing up the hunch of your posture
And the vacancy of your expression

Thank god you didn't look at me
I couldn't have taken it

And as the light turned green, I realized
That the shower waiting for me at home
Couldn't possibly clean the grime I accumulated
Just by driving away.

Forsaken soul
Taking root in a land thought barren
Or hostile
Or uninhabitable

Where the water is poison

The air toxic

Will your vines slip through the cracks,
Dandelion?
Will you be the ****
That blossoms in the summer
And leaves yellow stains on
The palms of our hands?

Will we cut your roots down?

Will we shut out the sun?

Do we shake the earth with cloven hooves
And break the stone?

Maybe you'll **** the water supply dry

Or maybe you'll just **** the poison out

There is a hunger I can't quench,
An addiction I can't subside.
An itch that burns under my skin
And I've tried scratching it.
I've tried.

I want that pretty silver tongue
To match pretty porcelain hands
Hovering over ink wells
And candle stands
But I can't have that.
I can't salvage
From the depths of my mind
A poem to wrap around words like
"Gossamer",
"Murmurous",
"Erstwhile".

Art is a circle
But I am a line with crumbling architecture,
My thoughts linear and grit;
My prose stuffed with an hour-long process
Of charm and wit.

I write these words to feed you;
Please you;
Fill you with the sense of understanding
That I can't come to.
My art is a lie with a rainbow
And I stand smiling in an empty room,
A vacant audience in a ghost of a show.

I write because I need you.
I write because I want to dance for you.
I write because I want to seem wise.
But all that it amounts to
Is a high that always dies
And a candle that burns out
Far too quickly.

This is not a cry.
This is not goodbye.
This is me.
And I hope, for me,
That this is enough to satisfy.