THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY

My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

I pour a cup of tea.
Earl Grey in a China blue cup.

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.

Sometime in the future, people might ask me, "Why don't you ever write love stories like you did before?"

I can write about love. I can write stories. But to write love stories...I guess I left that with you.

I don't write love stories because maybe I've broken hearts before I've had my heart broken.

I don't write love stories because maybe I've seen the magical illusion of a happy marriage shatter before it could cast its spell on me.

I don't write love stories because maybe I've seen the falling out of love before the falling in love.

I don't write love stories because maybe all it would be is a sadly ever after.

I don't write love stories because maybe all I'd write about is you.

Like a small snowdrop impatient for spring
I searched for love in winter's wing

Silver petals shiver in the cold embrace
Of the warmth of your gentle ways

My roots are embedded deep in the ground
With little company but icy snow around

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