A crackling upon skin

Numbness penetrate into the bones

Watching the world, but not really being a part of it

Watching. Watching.

Sinking inside, bringing out a different side to deal with what can't be done

Ears ringing but there is no sound
I'm weird, that I can attest.
If the world is round

Why would there need to be an East and  a West?

Why would there need to be borders and lines?

Why would there be a need for a divide?


Is it a word created for


Is it a word created for


There would be no such thing as

Why are there notions like these

Why would there be a need for these

If things were different

Would now be different

Not better

Not worse

Just different
Apparently I'm still not over it
And in the end
There is no

The End

Because life is just
A series of
Unfinished stories
I asked my son, “why are you crying.”
“I am finally in love,” he said.
And I knew it hurt, that forever
awkward landing, just to rise,
      so as to breathlessly fall eternal.

No longer in love with me, for
that must pass, but with the body
of his future, novel and bright
as the reveille of himself.

I am not strong. I turned away
as my limbs quaked, poisoned by that
curious concoction all parents
must drink if we wish to free

the future from our briny net.
One part pride, one part fear,
finished with a spit of envy,
guzzled down with rueful surrender,
      no longer the center of the fire’s dance.
She struggles,
To find out who she is.

She starts to ask.
Why am I here?
Why do you love me?
Why do you want me?
Was I mistake?

If there was no drugs or alcohol,
Would my dad be in my life?
If I didn’t struggle would I be depressed?
If I were to die today,
Would people actually care?

If I tell you my story, would you listen?
Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write from the heart
The rosin still clings
To my slackened strings
And my shine is all but gone.
Yet you found me;
There lying still and silent,
In my funerary garments
Of tattered velvet
and darkened oak.
You called to me,
Coaxing me back into being.
For yours is a labor of love;
I need you nearly as much
As you need me; Musician.
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