I look in the mirror,
and I see

                      pox

         scars

                          marks.

I long to be
the round faced girl
that I see in my memories
with eyes that dance with innocence
despite everything she had been through.

                           That saw fairies and dragons
                in the corners of her room

Who talked to mermaids
                                 and danced with bards

Some would call it an overactive imagination.
But I'm faced with the dullness
in my eyes
and I miss the worlds I created.

Because this one

hurts.

It would seem
That all I ever consider
Are questions
And I never quite get closure
No one offers answers
Especially when I'm too afraid to ask
I don't know what I am
Maybe I'm just making it up
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm dramatic
Maybe I'm sick
Maybe I'm in a phase
Maybe I'm just broken
But I don't want to ask
Because the answer
Can't possibly be good

Zen monks talk of detachment
Of emptiness, for will or want
Towards the clearing of all desire
And in the great translucent sea
Of their complete freedom
They speak of the perfect simplicity
Of their mountain abode
And mundane chores for the maintenance of earthly vessels
Mentioning, only in passing,
How serene the world is in their high cold house
And how nice the whole world looks
Framed in their peasant doorway

I envy the envyless
Nowadays who can afford a whole  mountain to themselves.

There are two little fires sitting next to me
They radiate a fierce warmth meant only for themselves
The light and heat of their dance Illuminate the dim bar with a loving And jealous radience
If I sit too close
Or look directly
I will burn myself
Their fire is for themselves
But it's warm nonetheless
And I don't mind
I hope their fires burn for a long time to come