A full glass of "how could you's?"
Nine fork lifts of "I told you so's" to fill out
Beside the "maybe's" and "hope to be's"
A napkin stitched with "your loss" in continuous patterns
It's no use, no good, I know I misunderstood but
I'd rather starve than awake to this judgmental breakfast.

Book


Filled with the dead trees
From our backyard.
It’s shell hard, yet soft, protective, gentle.
Covered in a picture, words,
And a name
That brands it as theirs.

The insides:
Scratched,
Torn because of anger
Fear
And disgust.
And all it can do,
Is bleed it’s dry
Black ink.

We take for granted,
These small,
Yet large pieces of art
The ones that tell us all about their life
And about the ones who created them.

They sit, quietly,
Solemnly,
Unfortunately,
Across the desk,
Lined up with their brothers
Unopened,
Unread.
Yet,
They have been read.

Glittering gold,
Blazing reds;
Vividly bold,
Bedazzled threads.
Sparkling silver,
Onyx lace,
Feathered crowns,
And a hidden face;
A masquerade of fabrication,
Patrons dance away the night;
They revel in such admiration,
Till shines the light of dawn.

I sometimes curse the day I was born
as from this life we all are torn.
As quick as an eye
does easily blink
so there shall be
nothing to think.
So I will indulge
my experience will bulge
till it bursts at the seams,
no time for those unfathomable dreams.
Our bodies tire
as we live to expire
holding on to the inspiration
of our memories,
and no matter what
whether you have or have not
the last post will sound
when it does please

here
cloaked within the desolate,
merciless shadows of time
i cling to that which has held me
when the dark becomes darker
and the hours become longer
i clutch the only hope remotely viable
in this wretched isolation that follows me
not like a curse
but more a tortured friend
i dream in the pleasure of sleep
and scorn my first waking thought
encircle me now
your shade is my only salvation
here