endlessly she looks on
lashes never flinching
no lids weighed by metal
to blink as you rock her
imaginary tears to fall

a little box freshly made
smells of melted plastic
made by wrinkled hands
with eyes shut tight
droplets soiling the exterior

the night her wisp of a candle
dimmed and turned to smoke
i held her in my arms
knowing she couldn't hear me
yet still sang that lullaby
the one that played each time
you pulled the string attached
to her back

and when i peaked down at
the window of her entrapment
my weepy eyes reflected on
her cracked porcelain skin
i imagined her mint condition
just like the day
i brought her home

If you ever
Spy me in a tree
Don't worry
I am just pretending
To be a bird
With wings of wax
And a beak of iron

Do you really know me?
Or do you know the self
You created
Out of clay
And paper mache?
Forming a joke?
A caricature?
That's so beaten down
They're afraid
To rip apart
The lies
And come forth
Like a babe
Anew?
Fresh and gleaming
And free?

Dressing up in starlight
Mingled with the mess
Of all that that's good and wholesome
Finely coifed tress
Look at me and wonder
Where I came to be
Don't fear the lovely lady
Marvel at what you see

If fire burns
and destroys
everything
in it’s path

then why
do I want
to touch
the stars

so badly

can self destruction
really be so
beautiful

When people ask
“What kind of poet are you?”
I often reply
A sad one
And not inherently
Because I always am
But because sometimes
The sadness is easiest
To get lost in
And I often find myself
Needing to be lost