To be awoken from moments displaced,
Finding a voice as I open my mouth.
Introduced to sensations of my dread,
I soon find myself quickly heading south.
Making logic of this eerie feeling,
As soon as I spoke I just emptied out.
I recall moments of my departure,
That green pasture of black birds and roses.
Relief shivered down my cold nervous spine.
"I must have died, that's a relief..." I said,
"My problems are finished, I am released."

She whispered in my ears all her broken dreams
And I stood there, afraid. I did not move.
She held me and she tore her fingers on my broken edges and as I tried to run away she
Pulled me closer and watched the blood in some sort of fascination.
Nothing scared her.

So I stood there watching the blood fall in red soundless drops and mix with her tears
By her feet. She was angry at her tears.
Because women don’t cry.
She wouldn’t let me free myself from her grip and I said I did not want her to bleed any more
But she would have none of it.
She wants a man that will wipe her tears, she said-
Tears are the blood of the unseen wounds
And such are the wounds we need most protection from.

So I stood there, holding her. I tried not to move.
I hoped that standing still would keep her hands from bleeding more but she ran her hands all over my jagged edges. She said that it was a metaphor. That it should mean something.
But she kept crying and I fought myself off of her. I fetched her water to clean her wounds but she laughed and pushed it aside.
Play some music instead, she said.
The wounds I must clean are unseen-
Only angels can fight demons
Only beauty can erase the ugly
And only light can ***** out the darkness.

So I played her some music.

And then I stood there watching her move her head along to that
Lala Salama song
Like certain worlds had been hidden in its words.
She danced until the song was over and still she danced to the silence
Her eyes closed and her head always shaking. Always.

When she was done she asked me what I had seen
and I told her that I had seen her dance and that I had seen
her close her eyes and that I had seen her sing along silently.

She jumped at me. She was angry.
These are not the things you were supposed to see, she said.
These are not the words you were supposed to say.
And she opened the door and walked out.

Now I listen to that song.
Maybe I shall hear what it is I was supposed to be listening for.

shadows lurking within shadows.

breezes blowing against winds.

tears falling painlessly into the soul.

memories and pains and fears that couldn't be erased by time nor washed away by rain.

sunken hearts we couldn't rescue from blackened waters.

caloused heals that couldn't stop themselves from walking and so kept bleeding.

suns that chased leaves from the comfort of their suspension to the
uncertainty of the ground underneath.

in this world we paint no pictures we would wish to see again;
today's love shall be tomorrow's regret and today's tears we shall weep them again
tomorrow.
we could wish to be children again,
constantly charmed by the least of things but who would wish to be so
helpless so susceptible?

the demons that chase us do not despair-
though today we outrun them
when dawn breaks again they are there
and so we spend all our days running and yearning for stronger limbs and
stronger hearts.

it isn't enough to try and lose ourselves behind the windows of fast moving cars for in that way we see
life as what it isn't-

Death does not move in blurred lines.

it strikes within the light and always triumphs.
and we bury our dead in bitterness and tears;
teeth clenched in anger,
but we know such are blows we cannot return,
like we cannot hold the voices of those that leave us in our hands
to listen when their faces start to fade.

i love to scar,
with a heart too soft,
and lost thoughts too far-off.
on ripped paper,
i think too endlessly.
with a mind bursting at the seams,
longing for a heart full of gold,
to rip me from my daydreams.
to open my view, to see,
with eyes far too cold,
to see anything we could've been.

she's narrating the way
she's falling apart
with every word
they call her art

she called for help
they called it
poetry
can anyone ever separate
metaphor
from
reality

so she smiled instead
she was pretty instead
there was color instead
she was alive instead

they pat her back
well done
good work
relatable content

meanwhile she
is actively dismissing
the intent
to pack up and go
to quit and say no
to end it and skip it and leave it
so she penned it
posted it and shared it

if the only way
to break away
is this creative escape
she'll take it
any day she'll fake it
just to find a reason to make it

I keep my inner poet
Put away.
She is dangerous.
Doesn't understand her own power.
She thinks she can fly
And she'll make you believe
That you can, too.
But her wings are paper thin.
Too fragile for flight.

Her eyes shine too much
When the poetry is flowing.
I've seen the devastation
That can follow in her wake.

Grown men don't believe
In poetry.
Get lured in by siren songs.
Feel cheated
when the music ends.

I keep her put away
And hold my gaze on my hands
In the dirt.

We are safer that way.

How long has it been
since I last left my house?
Didn't let anyone in,
didn't go out.

Day after day
I sat in silence,
tryna find a way
out of my shyness.

Tried to get back some energy,
but all I found
was apathy
so on I drowned.

Swallowed by the darkness,
unaware of my surroundings.

It could've been a day
or a year,
I wouldn't be able to say,
how long it's actually been.