Hush, and feel the flush
and crush upon your body
as the air is expelled in
a gushing, rushing torrid of
****** memories.
Damning you to want more,
you want to thrash at the bedclothes
needing to find that release once more.
Yet you lay there spent in the morning's
hush, laid upon the chest of the one that
has made your heart sing, ears ring and
left you corrupted at the core.
The rise and fall of in sync breathing
is the only sound in the room
hush, hush, hush.

How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander
the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head
like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.

That pile of fallen leaves drifting from
the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,
to the grooves in that man's voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves
of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one's bones. And now it plucks a single
tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain's lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies
buzz away—while another accidental
coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain's gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds
a fraying map from the pocket of the day.

I see ant lines make a trail on paper
Etching out thoughts I thought to have never been thought
I see scenic interpretations of my mind's landscape
Hills, trees, mountains and rivers.
Painting and sculpting all at once
I unravel more than I believe is possible.
So complex, tiniest details of a fine mosaic art

And with  those minute details
I sit down with a mug of coffee
Here in, the cool evening breeze
I weave a tale and thread a story.
And as I write with this hot headed fervor
I see nothing but the gates into my mind,
Open and welcoming, patient and enduring.
Leading me by the hand
Strapping me up for an adventure.

Now, in my own little world
Might take a little more than a thunderstorm  
To bring me out of this trance
Oh no, this world I create and paint
My deft strokes and personal touches,
This one's for my keeping,
This one's my piece of art.

Yes, you look at me and see
Nothing but incoherency  
Sitting in a dark room
Talking to myself
Scribbling nonsense.
Nonsense?!
No!
Just the musings
Of a mad woman !

Take your concerns, sweet mother
weave them with your hatred,
your bitter contempt of youth
Take your forced confessions
like poison from my Judas tongue
while you sigh in eager disappointment
at the damage done long before.

I was not made in your image
this was not my crime to answer
I was the cuckoo in the nest
a child of a wayward child, 
given in hope of more
in many ways gaining less

Affection in monetary value
a room full of treasures
to hide my empty heart
loveless and longing
for a connection with something other than your stinging palm

My rebellion, taken in personal tones
was against my existence, not yours
Unwanted, unloveable girl
my constant internal monologue
screaming above the screamers
that made my speakers bleed.

my need for you has not diminished
nor will my love for you fade
there is no understanding
for the misunderstood it seems
we remain locked in battle
bathed in tears, questioning love
your scars deep, my gratitude deeper.