Ideals

You do things the right way
You have your ideals. Your principals
You dress the way you dress
Say the words you want to hear
They do not have the answers


I watch their feet
I match their steps
I wear a tie, meet their stares
and dare not blink first

I do not learn from heartache
and match the cufflinks on their shirts
They do not have the answers

You have your protest
I take what I need, forfeit sleep
Take pause that they won't notice

I learned they smile when I repeat
scripture from a Bible
You have the right way
I have right now, survival

Thirty days tomorrow,
a slightly disheveled gait.

And the debt to be paid
In waking to the painful knowing
That noone wants closure.

It's waking every day.
Waking sober.

Woke up and made my way to the shore.
Take a seat.
I'll never find where I rested before.

Only one new change not in mind but heart.
All knowing.
A hand touches my shoulder.

What do I want?
Spare my soul to adventure
An enlightened child,
Playing dress up as mentor

Denying my hand
Casts doubts on my words
No wager to fold
Fated souls might endure

She will be beautiful.

I use to look at your picture every day.
Then four times a week.
As of tomorrow,
I'll have almost made two weeks.
A long time passed.
Excruciating.

I'm not OK
They pay me to be.

I planted tulips last spring.
They weren't for you,
But I thought they could be.

The tulips bloomed again
Three red, one yellow.
As bright as your carnation
On prom night yellow.

The tulips bloomed too early
Hence the wilting.
I said I'd pull the weeds and tend.
It's almost been two weeks.
Excruciating.

This place is a run down, poorly lit bus stop on the wrong side of town. You're stranded at birth and die waiting on the bus home.

It suits me just fine.

Dear Mary. Dear Theresa. Dear Eve.

I write to you to see
My daily reminder
To be sovereign

Test not the waters
Waves will brake alone

Let Mary talk. She needs this
The world listens.
Man need not be present

Dear Diary,

We were hunters. Free.
How could one soaked in blood
Enraged with life
Contrive such marital obligations?

Do we dedicate ourselves to such,
Or simply ones self?

Give her a year, give her a day.
Give her a minute.
Give unto women that of which is woman's.

Give it a rest.
He spoke, 'Let the dead bury the dead'

Dear God,

Like the birds in the field I do not worry
Return my rib
I give not. I detest.