Mental illness is like burning paper in the daylight.
You can hardly see the flame, but the pages disappear.

I've bled them dry,
How fine how fine,

For once in their eyes,
They now hold no life.

Nor apple seed bloom,
Nor mannequin beheld.

Always too soon,
to be put on the shelf.

If there were a language for walls,

It would mumble,
Per broken jaws.
The sun would shine through fragmented holes,

A windows' lone goal?
To magnify heat,
Til' all was engulfed.

With confirmed dead inside,
None knock, as they've read inscribed:

"Family tree,
Difficulty,
Unavailable."

"Family business,
Buy one,
One comes free,
Fire wood sale."

About the signs,
Red flags,
Or happy notes,
Scented mail-box-pine?

Did they explain in ways that you could hear,
Spell his name in your tongue for your ear,
Draw in the lines from his mirror?
Or was it fear?

The sketch artist quit long ago,
What was the crime,
What was the trouble?

Oil spill words,
Gold that chokes out the birds.
Thought we could be deep,
But only sip from the sea.
And into the bay,
I promise to only stain the sand,
Until you look away.

One part calm,
Two parts storm,
Three parts shipwreck on the shore.

Four parts home,
More parts gone,
All parts missing the calm before.

I'll use the excuse,
I just like the pretty lights.
But if you're looking for truth,
I escape the day through the night.