Secrets are not to be played with.
Yours, mine, ours, theirs -

Turn a stone over at your own risk, not mine
(nor my own expense),
nor anyone else's.

Prompt me to speak,
I won't if it's about a secret.
A lie, perhaps.
A yarn? Hell, yes, please!
But bury your secrets deeper than you do your dead.
Mine are deeper still.
Miners are still looking for my little diamonds,
rough as they may be.

Commonplace language
Comfortable impressions
Automatic concrete deadbolts
Stockpiled beginnings
Automatic appearance
Comfortable language
Unlock the commonplace deadbolts
Holding us concrete
In our beginning language
and stockpiled impressions
Appearances automatic

Never ask for much
But you just kept taking.
My heart kept giving
But my mind knew you were faking
When you said "This will be the last time"
But you kept on taking, hurting, using, burning.
I wanted to believe, wanted to trust you
But "too far" is just one more step toward yearning.
You took so much good, even took some bad from me
But what you left me with felt like a storm-ravaged home
Your inventory of taken things, stolen things, ruined things was huge

But what you forgot to take was my power to write this poem.

A snowy man walked into town.

With him, a lynx, badger, and tall bull elk.

His pipe was always lit,
fragrant cherry clouds following him and his friends.

The elk drew the most attention, as the badger was smallish
and the lynx was a mistress of hidden places.

The man never gave his name,
but he also never challenged questions put to him.
He was able to answer you without answers,
and you'd leave him, fulfilled with some truth or other,
of your making or his.

His smile was as warm as his pipe.
His eyes had the spark of the bowl,
but were as black as the briar.

The snowy man stayed a day shy of a week.

And as he left deep past midnight
on that sixth day,
a warm spell came through and
robins, ivy, and cherry blossoms
all were seen that next week.

We don't know the way he left -
no tracks of lynx, badger, elk, or man were ever found.

Glass half full,
but I feel mostly empty.
Hollow victories and cold failures
fill my glass.

Bitter liquids charge me,
change me.  Flow,
time flow.
Time to fly
on shaking wings.

I am drained as much by myself as by others.

Speaks soft, speaks slow, faster or louder, sometimes
even with something almost like an accent
from no place found on a map.

He says things that sound more right
than they feel.  He knows what
people want to hear

Dresses so plain to never stand
out.           He can't notice how
that has become its own trap.

Sometimes changes his name, sometimes
even forgets the one his
Mother held so dear.

His hair can change at a moment's
whim.  His bathroom mirror
feels like it's own disguise kit.

Piercing in? Piercing out?
Tattoo shown or covered?
He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it

I was never one to hide my words
I was never afraid to speak my mind
But my tightrope life with you
sometimes makes me feel so unkind.

Tense mouth, tingle in my tongue
Tension and drama persist
I'd love to let go and tell you how I really feel
but try as I might, my soul shouts "Resist!"

So for now, I'll smile and it'll be okay
and for now, yes, I'm "fine, dear."
But before our next loud tango
I'd love to get things clear.