I think I should quit
Writing about the men
Who will never love me.

Why do I never
Write about a man
Who stands
Right in front of me?

Maybe I'm scared --
Of his dead-sea eyes
Of his wild, scraggly hairs.

Of his mind --
How he loves to search and sleuth
And read.
That he'll fall in love with my work
Peer inside my pages
And see, suddenly.

That, maybe one day
He'll read these words
And say, "Hey!
This is me
Me, me!"

Oh, then
I think that I would die!

Maybe it's because
I've believed his funny folly, --
He's spoken to me
Said, "Girl,
You write to escape."

And how can you escape
By tumbling inside
Of something you can see
With your eyes open wide?

Maybe it's because he's already here
The accessible muse.
Maybe it's because, when I move my pen
I feel it is guided
By his steely blues.

Maybe it's better
When I write
For the men who aren't there.

Because I know
If they stumbled upon my words
They'd simply say, "Oh,
What do I care?"

I don't know you, --
That's the cold, sad fact, --
And most days
I suspect there isn't much to know.

I know this
Because I know how it feels to love you.

Because loving you
Is like looking out the window
Into the street
When it's far too late
And even the hoodlums are asleep.
Loving you
Is like looking into the street
At midnight
When everyone's asleep
And it isn't raining.
The wind just blows uselessly
Rustling leaves
Reminding you that you can still breathe.

Loving you
Is like looking out the window at midnight
And walking away
Only feeling that you need to go to sleep
Because all the world around you seems dead.

Because loving you
Is like watching a show
Where all the actors have perfected their craft
And love to wear masks.
Loving you
Is like going to watch a show
That you know you've seen a million times.
The actors could convince you that they were working themselves to the very bone
And all you'd want
Is to doze off in the theater's cushioned velvet seats.

Loving you
Is like seeing a play
That's so ****** familiar
It makes you sick to think of watching it again
And yet
You'll never know how it feels
To watch it from backstage --
Not that you'd ever want to.

Because loving you
Is like loving the void, --
A black hole, that sits and swallows up everything
At your dinner table.
You'll say that you hate it
Curse its name as it ***** up
Your beef roast
Your silverware
Your fine china
Begging for dessert
Just before it latches on to your arm.
But deep down, you know
You'll just keep feeding it
Mindlessly tossing useless solutions in its direction
To satiate its beastly appetite.

You'll hurl things at it
With ferocious anger
Sneer
At its revolting belch.
"Don't ask me for anything else," you'll mumble as you skulk away
Only to press the reset button
And start setting the table
For the next day.

But I'll never think any of these things
Because loving you
Is looking as deep as you can
And finding...
Nothing.
Nothing!
Nothing...

Truly
Loving you
Is like loving a black hole.

Ban me!

Burn me!

I, literature, can speak to you.


Love me!

Hate me!

I, art, can scream it, too.


Buy me!

Don't play me!

I, music, hide my meaning in shadows.


I'm not a martyr!

Don't hurt me!


...He, the artist, is sent to the gallows.

Every day

Is Judgement Day

Here in Purgatory

Where we weave

The End Times

Into our bedtime stories.


We stake claim

On what is ours

Sign our name

Cross our T's.


We seek approval

From higher-ups

Yet care not

About earthly kids

Or the lives of trees.


You see, though we're large

We care about the little things.

That's what makes us pure.


Should you tell us otherwise

We'll let you burn below

For sure.

He has a siren's scream

And angel hair

And the devil himself

Sometimes takes up residence in his eyes.


He makes your heart skip a beat

When he waxes poetic about death

And the smoke from his lips

Makes you feel alive.


You love the way

That his voice breaks

And, in his desert of broken things

You'll see the mirage of your strength.


The art that he makes

Is your perfect opportunity

A chance to make his viscera

All soft around the edges.


Let him sing like Cobain.

You'll take that song

Turn it into something

That sounds like Plath.


And you'll beg for those songs

But he won't ever ask for the poems.

The most that he notices

Is that you pity him

When he cries.


He'll bring worry to your pen

And love to your heart

Leave you thanking the heavens

For bringing you a muse

That feels just as much as a girl

Even if it makes you cry

When he leaves you alone.


The curse of the muse:

To you, "can't save him"

Will never sound quite right.

If she is hungry

Then we'll let her starve

For longing

Is a beautiful expression

On the face of a pretty, young girl.


If she is cold

We'll wrap her in white

Over her paper-doll arms

Dancing-girl legs

Porcelain-baby face.


We'll spare her from mummification

By peeling away those first layers

Just to reveal more white, adorned underneath

Pure as ****** snow.


We'll never speak

Of those dark shadows

Over smooth, breakable skin, so fair

For we shall make a gentleman wonder

If she wears proudly her shadows

If she has on her pantyhose.


If she becomes yours

We'll show everyone

If only for a moment

Just what a prize you have won.

Such a lovely, hungry, pure, feminine face

Beneath that age-old veil.


But don't you worry, son!

As soon as you taste those wanting, red lips

You can lower that veil as you wish

Decide the form she shall take

As one who is yours

To feed, clothe, flaunt, hide

However you please.


But until then...


If she is hungry

We'll let her starve

Just to make her wait.