It's ironic
I make doors all day,
but i never get to open them.
I see hope in a sea full of island-men
But  none of them will send for it.

Script scratched on the sinews of my soul
Lips echo with sharp words,
I slipped away where nobody would know.
I cried in the bathroom.
I didn't want to hurt anyone.
I didn't want too be feared,
Or hated.
Face forced into a ticking ,twitching smile
Fake gestures ,stiff posture, a throat full of bile.
Linguistic cuts,covered over with syllabic stitches,
Words have cut,and words have healed him.

Body brimming with sensations.
inhabited by aches built up from ages.
You are only twentytwo.
But you're ancient soul,
And I hurt like you.
You've seen much
And known much beyond what you can speak.
You're bent double in the dirt,
But no pained sounds scratch dry across your lips.
Instead, this drumbeat.
Permeating the air with your presence.
Your ancient cadence and effervescence.
Its ever present
And it lingers
Tingles tinged with nectars sweeter
Converge at your coming,
At your going
They scatter to the four corners of the earth.
At Vesper's whisper, one evening far,
You'll find your star-singed edges
Returning to where you are.
You shall know yourself.

Do my words satisfy anyone?
Not you,not me.
Writing for satisfaction is not an option.
I write for expression.
For description.
For discovery,
For decryption.
For fantasy,
For religion,
For analogy,
For inscription.
For acknowledgement,
And for knowledge.
For rendition,
For depiction.
For sleep,
And resurrection.

I beat back the worry And the wish for me.
I provide you with a taste of my presence and my words.
I sate your hunger for my attention.
And then I recede into myself.
Ever I am in flux.
Are you hungry,am I tired?
Which need is greater?
How can I give to you what I do not have?
I hide my emptiness by hiding it at the bottom of my perceived depth.
If I seem deep, of is only because I'm digging the hole.
And I cordon off an acre around it,
Because God forbid somebody fall faster than I can dig.
Once you get to the bottom of me,
I'm just like everyone else.
Empty.
Hungry.
Lonely.
Trying to fill myself up,but unable to find what fills me.
Trying to sate my appetites,but they always grow.
Trying to feel known,but torn between hiding and showing myself.
Happiness evades me.
I am colored pervasively by my lack.

I shy away from sentences.
In the spaces where words should be,but aren't I can maintain my anonymity,and shore up my unrepentance.
  When I speak in more than snippets, it becomes plain.
I am as broken as my preferred pattern of speaking, of writing.
If you look close enough, you can see it.
It isn't as clever as I wish it was.
And sure, its effective enough at soliciting a fleeting feeling.
But what good does it do?
I like to pretend that I want to be known.
Really, I am hiding just out of sight.
Around the next corner on that daily walk where we sometimes collide.
  In circles of other people you know.
You've seen my face, you know my name,
youd even say you know me.
But if you were asked who I am, you'd hesitate,
with a catch in your throat, and a half reassuring-half derogatory smile.
" well, you're.. You" you'd say.  
And no matter how many times you're asked, you'd repeat it.
For days,months, years.
I've watched it happen already.
I'm not sure if I haven't taken the trouble to really introduce myself,
Or if you haven't taken the trouble to realize that I am not just
Some whimsical syllable
Plastered on my shoulders
From birth to now.
And now, we don't have time to be sure.

Ringing of raindrops on a tin rooftop
Tintinnabulation, wrapped up in lightning storm vibrations
A fickle thing-be it friend or foe?
Until I'm wet I never know.
Is it the rain that changes?
Or is it me?
Is it the cage that cages Captured wings?
Or is it the bird inside who has forgotten How to sing?