Going to war
was a piece of cake
compared to coming back

In war I always knew
at least a few things
would always happen.

It became my home
because my family lived there
my comrades became
the stability to continuing on.

Each indifferent day
was a lasting piece of our humility to living
and our bond-ship to pride.  

I slept in trenches,
in the open air,
under the protection of some thin vail
that'd we all make it back together.

Here in the common wealth
I sleep in alleyways
and under bridges
with the aspirations
that someone will spare some change.

My grandfather was an ancient thing
not a person or a place to hold my head
because he was always busy filling it
with the imagery of his life.

From his past where he had to survive
laying still next to his solder friends
who still held their weapons
even when they could not take another breath.

or the time my grandmother had a stillborn child
it would of been my uncle, but instead Rufus went on ahead
before anyone got the chance to meet him
holding his breath just like the soldiers did.

His sister, whose name no longer reaches me
so I usually call her Mrs. Harmony
because when I was four I heard her sing
our "star spangled banner yet wave"
with her soldier brother, my grandfather
standing with his hand over her heart
as she began to hold her breath as well.

I did see my grandfather do
what all his family members did before him
and really he is the reason I say they are holding their breath
that was his...our way of coping with our love ones
who stopped speaking to enjoy a silly little game
and sometimes I wish he could speak up
so I could know if he's been watching all this time.

I remember Icy cold hands softly grasping my wrist(s).
As they lead me down to the water.
It's a brisk sunny day clear of clouds and void of life other than us two.
Upon reaching the brim of this secluded lake I dive right in.
Solemnly sinking lower and lower until something whispers for me to open my eyes.

I remember thinking to myself how much longer can I hold my breath.
As I peer at this underwater world around me, quite a masterful landscape.
This could be a mini coral reef I thought as many creatures scuttled across the mossy corpse of what I assumed used to be a tree.

I remember the feeling of those same frozen hands.
Gently and tightly wrapping themselves around my chest.
I feel stuck and held in place as my eyes peer ever deeply.
Into the lush and overgrown thick of seaweed.
That looks as if it is waving for me to come closer.

I remember a minor sharp pain as if ice was arching its way inside my spine.
Slowly sending a tingling sensation into the back of my mind.
This world really is something as I ponder about an over sized rock. That was more than likely large enough to be called a boulder.
Also how did it ever came to exist right here in the middle of the water.  
Silly I know, but I also wondered if the fish same as people .
Would praise this rock to be something more than a pebble in a lake.

I remember a peaking feeling where everything began to rush to my head .
As the chilly edge slipped into my limbs as those hands caressed me.
Amongst this lavishness was the **** realization .
That the only thing that stood out in the realm was my existence.
It was my opaque form that caused quite a stir in this mundane environment .
If not for my involvement .
Today would have been the same as any other for these creatures.

I remember being enveloped into the pleasantness and peacefulness that the cold brought.
When I could finally no longer feel the hands pressed against my skin.
In this brief moment all I could do is take in what my gaze could hold. This moment could no longer last as my vision became hazy.
So I closed my eyes to accept what eventually had to come.

All I came up here to do was to make a poem and to get some extra credit now with that said I guess I really should earn it.

Now I don’t know what kind of poem you really want, but that really doesn’t matter since your already here and have already given your two dollars to Japan and my job Is pretty much already over before it even began.

Now I could do some Dr. Seussish stuff and just rhyme words with wish and ish that would make a mish and then you would find a magic cat fish, but that would be kindergarten repeatin-ish.

  Now this may not be fitting with what you planned, but I’ve already told you that I don’t care what you want I’ve doing this for me, Te he.

  Now that Dr. Seuss is out of the way maybe there’s something greater that I would like to say.

Now two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth; oh wait I’m sorry that’s not my poem. Hmm I’m stealing other people’s stuff I guess you guys aren’t getting your money’s worth tonight.

Now I don’t know what I could really bring up that isn’t ****** up, but maybe you could rejoice since you get to hear this magical lyrical voice.

  Now this has pretty much been off the top of my head and hopefully you haven’t been wishing you were dead, but hey I think it’s been pretty okay.  Now that you’ve heard this and have planned to leave your seat I would like to convince you that you shouldn’t stand to your feet.

  Now this has made me feel like the man I do hope that you’ve understood the sarcasm and jokes since this wasn’t only made for young folks.

Now since this little fling is almost over I would like to get yo numba, but who am I kidding you didn’t like this part of the show so I’ll just go, but before I go I would gladly like you to know…that there is no refunds.

When you fell in love with me
it was the most exhilarating life-style.
We're fabulous and none could tell us
that we were just two ordinary people swooning.

People spoke of remembering the beginning of their own--
comparing their moments to ours
the same places the same people,
but to be honest I never believed a syllable
they whispered our way.

Anyone can recreate a master piece
and say it is identical in every single way.
Though the painter will always look quite different
and their detailed feelings for each stroke
will be the same as a grain of sand
compared to a humpback whale.

These people see love as an comparison story
where they can take notes and read books:
how to deal with happiness or depression
what this means for her and him,
it's the exact same thing for their own relationship.

I simply smile at these folks
they will always wander the grounds behind us
seeking out thoughts
about how to deal with each other.
To them I give a full smile,
where my eyes crinkle at the corners
giving them some peace.

As I take your hand
and tell you about the beach
where we watched whales jump out of the water
and land all over the sand.

I hope that the world
comes to see my mind
and hope for them
to pray for my life.

Because they are never going to offer
me their hand
I'm over here in a distant land.

Suffering off poverty--
a place named 3rd world country
and none of them understand
that I smile while I bathe
standing on the riverside sand.

It's my peaceful cleansing
before returning to my shackles
the fear of living in this territory.

I used to have my neighbors
but now I have craters
and collapsed buildings
to keep me company.

Standing in the remnants
of a door frame
is the last place I ever saw my family.

Some of us chose to drown
swimming across the Aegean sea--
some of us chose to stay
so our children
could have a place on a raft about to keel,
but none of us chose to suffer
and feel like the entire world had turned against us.

Today there is no work to be done.
There is only rest
and the simplicity allowed
as the spaceman sleeps.

He dreams not of galaxies,
but the land and ocean
as he catches bass
down by the bay.

His peers worry
about opportunities missed
amongst the stars
as their astronaut
is calling in sick today.

He opens his eyes
and mumbles
about the plentiful
amount of fish and waves
the men down by the dock
get to catch each day.

How to imagine a poem--
when you speak those lines
do not say that you are dying or inlove,
but describe the way it's happening.

Death/Sad.

There's a noose around my neck
the rough fibers are digging in
reminding me of my fathers hands--
when I was eight years old
as he strangled me to sleep.


My helium light in the corner
begins to flicker as it always does
when there's a thunderstorm,
even as my world fades
I know it's sunny skies today.

Love.

There's a difference between smiling
and the way your lips slant upwards.
They remind me of my favorite nuts;
cashews are the happiest of all of them
the only ones able to make a smile
that puts all others to shame.

Nature/Happy.

As hydrogen and oxygen combine
making my sweet abode the ocean--
I sift saltwater side to side in my mouth
as I attempt to draw the air into my lungs.
Fish were born to exist here
where I am lucky to float in their home today.

End.

Poems are the hidden lizard in your back yard
that always seems to be there watching you--
or the pesky neighbor cat which hangs on the fence
riskily tightrope walking to sneak upon it's prey.

**...The meaning is always there, but sometimes it's difficult to see...

Soft spoken and simple
those are the words
that can define humanity
at it's best.

Today the world is busy--
thundering sounds bustle around our homes
ideology starves us of ourselves
and prevents us from being together.

Concerned over the affects
each new thing brings--
the segregation that can arise
is quelled with the fear of looking
as if a fossil whom does not understand.

To have an open mind
takes an open book,
but today nothing needs to be opened
each answer is directly given to you
and the burden to be educated
is on the system
instead of yourself.

Society is decided by the truth
and the truth is always changing
so with open minds
can it bring us all together.

Violence--
that is the term we like to throw around
when two people are brawling out in the street
Violence--
is a domestic dispute between two ill crossed lovers
who no longer can see eye to eye
unless their eyes are swollen shut.

Violence is not a fleeing person
who has to run from their protectors.
When protection means ****
it's hard to find the difference
between police officer
and criminal.

We're not shouting for them to stop speeding bullets
or to be our guardian who shields us from all
our pleas are for a chance
to live freely and safely in the world.

For them to understand that bullets do not prevent problems
and hiding the truth under a tower of corpses
will never keep their blood from seeping into the ground.
The ground where  too many people lie
from their protectors protecting too much.

I thought about two ideas
to write about and I
didn't write about either.

One had to do with
sidewalks and people--
the plundering
of personality
that happens
even when you walk
where it should be safe to be.

The other
was about technology--
that inside our veins
instead of polysaccharides
was the wires
to our electronics;
that stitch themselves inside
to keep us plugged in.

Maybe it was the in-toxicity
of having to try and fail
a persona that perpetuates
underachievement

or a rebel
that displays rebellion
by not rebelling at all.

My mind is the lackluster
of copper compared to silver--
its dull ensemble
may be its greatest achievement
a replication of someone else's words
because mine
lack the quality to be appreciated.

And my information for poetry
is irrelevant to the real world--
because these are analogies
they are the rhetoric of argument

the imagination of 'youth'
and from my age
deemed to lack understanding
so I cannot be president,
hardly can I speak,
nor should I be listened to.

My ribs were the opening door for many to crawl into my skin
as they gently pushed, at the center of my body.
My ribs would give way as easily as wind chimes to the wind,
but when my ribs dinged against each other, there was no soft melody.
Except the scraping sounds of moving old furniture across wooden floors.

The groans of loves seats too tired to want to live somewhere new,
anxiety of having your counterpart, separated, and living across the room.
Those floating floors dipping to the cement.
Too worn from being walked all over without any care or repair.

The chimes do not stop at the door.
They bounce and echo off cliche yellow stained wall paper,
since the body is not a relict of the 70's but a newer model from the 90's.

When these people sneak on in they want to have a grand tour
wanting to be shown the history,
that lay within the amber bricks edging themselves around the fireplace.
All I can really tell them is that I will show them to their room.

That was only the beginning as they trouble me more and more
asking about every door that we pass, that's boarded up with rusty nails,
briskly I open their door and tell them to feel at home.

I warn them that the power is not so great here,
some times, often, always,  it will shut down.
We don't know how long it will take to get back as it's always different.
They tell me, they do not mind all these flaws, as they add character.

I nod and leave them to rearrange their new place to stay.
Eventually this room will share in only being used for the acoustics.
As well as another door I will need to glance pass,
when the next passerby comes to stay.

5/20/1994
I'll forget your face--
even those hands I fell in love with.
The soft way they grasped my hips
as your head nestled into my chest.
I always admired how petite those fingers of yours were,
when compared to mine, they were inch worms wiggling between the earth.

6/20/1994
I'll forget our first--
even our first kiss that was always our biggest thing to laugh at.
That little parlor, was our first kiss,  
To find out how it would be with ice cream in our mouths
Little droplets of your favorite ice cream, vanilla cranberry.
Surrounded the bottom part of your upper lip,
slightly puckered, bending over the table towards each other.
I started to laugh before we even touched,
accidentally getting some raspberry on that sundress you love so much
Our lips didn't touch that day, but I still consider that our first kiss

7/20/1994
I'll forget our last--
Even our marriage, I can no longer remember what day it was on.
Although I replay that moment in my mind almost every single day,
trying so hard to keep it stored inside me, that even today I prayed to remember.
Your admiration for Swan Lake was obvious that day;
no wonder you had to dress in a black dress, and brides maids in white

8/20/1994
I'll forget the tiniest and the most important details to our wonderful life--
Even the ones you thought I never could:
we live at, 197 oakwood lane, or is it pinewood road,
we have three children...I love them very much

9/28/1995
I'll forget everything--
Except what I promised to always remember.
Dear, to me every day is our wedding day
It's the only thing I've been able to keep
Thanks for playing along with me,
It's been magical to marry you everyday,
to feel as young as we were back then.

Delete
the last
and forget the past
my fiendish ally <---back space
will reel back time
not here
not this time
freely written never taken back to the past
never back space
only to the future they go
aren't they lucky that none of them got deformed in a typo
freely written and never edited let creativity flow and never adjust
accept the mistakes
and evey mistake is just a glimmer of what had to happen
luckyily only 2 were made
not poetic, but meaningfl
make that 3

Paddling through images on my phone--
they are the only life boat in sight
a little floating canoe in the middle of a mighty ocean.
The tide is turning, trying to advert some ugly storm that's rising up;
debris fills the whirl pool as it slowly tempts to drag my anchor in.

Smudges appear on the glowing screen of my preoccupation,
as the teary drops blotch out the imagery I cling onto.
Only gaining more wind as it descends to sink this dinky ship.

Cascades of waves streamline their way through my finger tips,
settling into the motion, the shambles of the scooter rip away from me
Trembling as the mind wanders from surface to drowning.

Face down in a public space,
without any buoy to hold onto
These rampant waves will water-board the mind.

The campaign to survive, sunk with final life boat
As the perfect storm was able,
to fatally take my breath away.

Slamming doors are our earthquakes
they are the faults that quake
and when they shift
I can feel our world quiver.

The home we've built
is almost shambles
the plaster lining our walls
crumbles and becomes the dust on our shelves.

The fights we share
are the shifting foundation,
where cracks stagger our steps
and cause us to share blows
dancing a silhouette
of arguments.

Pieces of people
that we never used to be--
are the imaginary characters to our fairy tales  
because there is no way
we could see either of as beautiful--
when we are only seeing
an outline of who we used to be.

Caricatures so misshapened
that they are etched into our bedroom
the sleeping place we used to share our dreams
and instead we scream our nightmares

collapsing from exhaustion
only to cuddle with extra pillows
building forts on each side of the bed
to at least have something comfort us.  

Our harmony finally makes it's ******
it is not the smash of earthquakes
but the sickening silence of loneliness
because we've become isolated.

no longer stomping out natural-disastres
instead we accept our indifference
and we quietly leave the door open--
because there's no need to close doors
in a house we no longer live in.

Defeat


The color of black n white just like a tuxedo, deceiving. telling others that your fine

something that you pick that looks delicious, but is rotten to the core

the smell of your own burning home. Leaving you with only smoke and holes

a village line up shot and killed. Never had a chance like your hopes and dreams

like asking a girl to prom and hearing the words that you don't want spoke

being infected by some never known disease, making you lose all hope


Defeat

A broken heart is a dropped mirror against the bathroom floor
each shard scattering across the linoleum,
fragments reflecting the hidden parts
to something they thought they knew, oh so well.

The lining around the toilet really needs some hands on work--
behind it the sand dunes of the Arabian Desert.
Clumped up hair trying to mimic the humps of camels,
and a lone razor blade as frayed as
a lost wandered amongst the sand.

Wooden panels enriched with the holes of last times termites--
corners splayed with the webbings,
of those **** daddy long legs,
and a pincher bug trudging their way to a hole in the corner.

Picking up the pieces, was something to learn from.
This common room they thought they knew, oh so well,
actually had a hidden world just beneath their view.
Maybe the heart broke just like the mirror,
to open the mind to all the other things near by.

Fire that needs fueling
a place set and ready for burning
where a flame needs to ignite
needing so rightly to be kindled bright
popping and crackling
looming and glowing
so much timber settles the flames
leaving embers to start this fire

I imagine a man--
a strong, independent, pack leading figure
Who will always have the strength to carry his own family.
That on his wedding day he will carry his wife to bed
as he is expected to carry his children to theirs every night.

A man will be stern, and respected by those around him
every part of his being will be drawn to our attention.
He will have the heart of lion, the one bearing burdens, as he should
his shoulders will always stand firm, as the red woods have taught him well.

The voice of a man is deeper than the sounds of a bear,
being woken from hibernation.
His cave echos the triumphant's of experience,
as well as the wisdom's of manhood.

Truly a man is the best of his crafts
building treetop castles made of lumber and supplies
never needing instructions as he has it all inside
fixing all that he can fix, forever and always.

Emotionally, unknown--
his tempers sway, a brief signal in the sky, before it is wisped away.
Half grins yearning to resemble his wife and child
tightly holding those he loves in a lingering way--
unspoken is how it goes for a man.

Thinking of where they have been
has made me realize
that to me Thanksgiving
has always been a day I spent with my family.
The same people each year
as they repeat their ancient tributes.

People idly stand around the kitchen--
around an island of food
the same food each year:
of salami, chips, crackers
and an array of different cheeses
ranging from simply American to pepper jack
the one I've never seen someone eat.

It's a day where time has frozen
albeit Thanksgiving day always changes,
but the holiday always stays the same
my family is a concoction of numinous ideas
that when smashed together starts to combust.

It is where we relive our previous life
a content collection of relatives
who do not see each other that much,
but on this day can realize the love we have.

Even as reality leaves the day behind
and people begin to change
this is the moment we'll always have
because even when they leave for good
it'll be our day to thank them for the time we had.

People on the internet
are like any others
and talking without reason
terrifies us.  

‘Everyone you meet
is the monster under the bed
the skeleton in your closet
the psyche of horror
haunts their dreams.’

Maybe
every fable
we’ve ever heard
is lingering behind
the veil we call
our lives.

Or maybe,
if we were
really honest
for one moment,
a single breath.

We’d all come to know
spooks and goblins
didn’t come from tales told–
it is our personal fears
hiding within the mind.

Our unwillingness to believe
that anyone could come to love us
and the doom that suffocates
is the feeling no one will ever know,
who we are.

If people ever caught sight
of our bones
sleeping underneath skin
they’d run
leaving us with scars
scratched so deeply
we’d never be able to recover.

The ground around you turns to ashes and light that was is no more

The flicker of light within has been snuffed out you tremble to no end

The pain fills the cracks and once again you are whole

That would be the irony you are not whole cracks filled with pain

Is like gluing glass back together it’s never as strong as it once was

You are in pieces that have been etched to fit, but not by your hands

The person you are was made by fools, ones of merely surgical mask and tools

You have become a pack mule to bend and break to the use of others

You’ve lost your voice an identity of yours hidden with a mussel

Wondering if you were ever to be who you wanted or if you were always their toy

A toy smashed into the ground thrown high up to hit the ground, or tooken to see what’s inside you

The insides back then had flesh, bones, organs, the blood of life

Now I am porcelain, empty on the inside and an identity easily broken to never find itself

Humanistic traits
they are difficult things to find
even in humans.

I think I've been able
to find the sweet delights
of humanity
in the succulent fruits
that delight the dining room table.

They are ravenous
and quite fruitful with
the detailed insides of how
to live a meaningful
and quite delicious lifestyle.

Knowing when to drop problems
and ripen their own thoughts
they are prone to becoming rotten,
but when their time comes
they do not spoil the world around them
instead they spread the joy
of opportunity
to their children instead.

Going in multiple directions
is touted to be better than one;
it's better to have two hands than one,
a double rainbow is twice the taste.

My two ways are
the hard way or no way;
I'm a car that will speed
down the highway going 100mph
to a destination I've never heard of
with a turnout sign that hasn't been made.

I'm a stalled out car on a hill.
I'm a little beater car that should have
been lifted for spare pieces years ago,
but instead of caring for my parts
I've made myself die on a mountain
made out of molehills.

I can drive myself hard in either direction
both of them end up with me digging dirt.
One I'll bury all of my ideals,
and the other I'll dig up all the reasons
I never should have been driving in the first place.

He loved her more--
than he could ever imagine.
Only because he had the imagination of a squirrel
some euphoric animal who's only thoughts,
were as creative as: find nuts; hide nuts.

He never knew what he was doing,
as his eye sight was so poor,
even the bats that were outside his home
echoed the depraved behavior before him.

He had the temper of some territorial animal--
hippopotamus will suffice as this is what he resembled
because when he was told "no"
everything around him felt the thrashing
that was about to come down on them.

This cat clinging to her last life
when all the other eight were lost to past fights--
she held on tight, and finally found the strength for one word.
A freedom she's always had but some snake hid it from her.

The bear had claws and strength to hold the feline down
as the monstrosity that he was crushed her wind-pipe.
Startled by the crackling of twigs in her neck
a reminder that common beast fear fire.

Slumped against the wall next to his prey,
as a koala confused by the nature in front of him--
struggling to understand the horror.
He simply slips into another creature
clearing his conscious of the flames he fears.

I stand before my classroom
on the first day--
it is Research Methods
a course that I am forced to take
but I am assured it is for the best
even on the first day
I am told that you can use
this course for everything.

But I don't know who
they are trying to convince,
is it me that the course has meaning
or themselves that they are worth something,
because if it's the 2nd
then the professor probably shouldn't
call on me to answer the question.

In my mind the redundancy
is a wax wrapper
to a lollipop that
I don't understand why I need it
as it was already wrapped in paper
and now I struggle
to find purpose for
a flimsy piece of plastic-wax
that I can hardly even see.

Rotating my head around
as if a person waiting in a traffic accident
and wondering if I can see the body
from where I am sitting--
luckily this is a class room
and every body here is
part of collision that they
never intended on having.  

The drought of thought
that I see spilling across the class room
and the formality of facing forward
while actually daydreaming
is sadly part of this necessary course--
where pencil stained desk
are the only things worth
drawing my attention.  

It's our special day
this is only the first meeting
and instead of being here 3 hours
we get to leave here in 1--
now everyone realizes
this traffic will last longer
than originally told
so maybe it's better
to get outside and walk.

Do my clothes bother you--
as I wear black leggings
with small high school shorts above them
or is it my pastel blue hair
with an assortment of illustrious flowers
in a shape of a crown on my head.

Maybe it's the collection of tattoos
that I have spiraling around my arms;
little pictures of despicable me minions
and clusters of anime that you
never  thought worth while to know the name of.

Is it the rotation of shoes ranging from
sky spotted flats to glamorous Toms
that show the expansion of the galaxy on our horizon,
which reminds yourself of how ignorant you may really be in comparison.

Does the reflection of the sun
bouncing off of my 3/8ths of an inch earrings
cause you to become confused, just like my cat does
when I am at home near some window,
or is it too difficult to comprehend that this is me not you.

Are we estranged conjoined twins
that I never knew about some how,
and what I like prevents you from living
because then I would understand why
compromising is even an option.

As a man or woman of youth or elderly--
I choose equality over self-replication
I choose not to be defined by the singularity
I choose to exist in freedom
and I choose to be myself with all of its complexities.

The last years.
they open presents to their desires;
enjoying what they perceive as their own.
The last years.
I open regrets to what I am undeserving;
persuading myself  to accept these "gifts".
The last years.
They deserved more than nothing.
I deserved less than their all.
This Year
Smiles and cheers cross their rosy child-like faces.
While mine mask the pain I could never share.                     Never on a holiday like this.

**Merry Christmas.

If I never wrote
people would never know that I live--
does that matter--
it sure does to me.

That when my thoughts
and words
all my experiences
never hinted to involve another person.

How can anyone ever know:
that I think
I ponder
and I thrive
that amongst all my knowledge,
desperately I pander
for the eyes atop hills
and inside the trees around me

to speculate about my life,
when the wind brushes
through my hair
and sweeps across plains
knocking into trees
and leaking into your homes.

There are hints of my brevity
lingering within the air
and next time you speak
you'll realize that these words,
are not yours alone
but the words I've snuck
into your mind
with the wind.

I am like a shelf the shelf that holds all things dear to you

you do not see me much since you hide me underneath the things you "love"

You don't even think of me even though I hold your world up

I hold the pressure of your world, but I do not change for it

and when you see me bare you will cover me up again.

Months have gone and the pain does not pass
Friday was pretty harsh, maybe I missed the mark
It was life all in one glance, ours lives happened to crash
I can't say right now, but we met, and I was happy to leave the dark

Friday we both left our shells
We both shared our pain, but what did we gain
I feel like I brought us both to hell
I cannot say right now, but we met, and it still drives me insane

After our Friday thy continued into the night
she kept on crying, while I boozed mine away
I awoke wanting to speak of all the things we said in the light
I cannot say right now, but we met, as I slip into the dark, to my dismay

Honey I said we'd talk on Sunday
Am I ready to speak or should I wait till Monday
One past Sunday can't change much; should I wait till Tuesday
I cannot say right now, but we met, is it Sunday?

I'm from an open hand and a friendly smile

I'm from hard laughs and cheery hellos

I'm from good mornings and good nights and everything in between them

I'm from all of that because it is what I give to the people around me. Blessed by the strangers that by the grace of day get to echo some melody into my being.

I'm from an open mind, open beginnings, and an open book.  That when I speak my words they are an opening that few have ever taken.

I'm from shut in Mondays and shut in Tuesday all the way to shut in Sundays.  Where the sun rises only when my eyes begin to close.  

I'm also from no sleep any day everyday as my mind wonders to the places that it should not go.  That when I imagine my mind it looks like a little girl in red.  It kind of plays out like a story some fable that I play for myself repeatedly.  The child always putting their head in a wolves mouth even though they know better.  Because my story is based off of life and no huntsman ever comes to save them.

I'm from facing the truth that when a child goes into the woods alone they come out missing something or they never come out at all.

I'm from children know best, but also know worst.  Children know how to start the day with an open hand and a friendly smile but they don't know not to put their head in a wolves mouth.  

I'm from every child that ever got stuck in those **** woods, because they are the thoughts of mine that I reread over and over.

I'm from story telling that doesn't know when to stop  That when fiction blends itself into my own book I struggle to see my way through the thick of woods.  

When the story ends. Where does life begin.

An undergraduate no more
I was once a student among many
and now I am a student amongst none.

Because there is an education bubble
and it exist at universities
where thought is something
to behold as it is so beautiful.

Instead of compassion
for the trivial pursuits of enlightenment--
there is cascades of sludge
and ooze of the repetitious awnings.
They line each other's minds
as they wander the parking lot of life.

Education becomes the Sun
and just like the Sun
when it becomes
so brilliantly bright one must look away,
because in contrast to the dimming bulbs bobbing around--
the radiance of knowledge
loses all it's light
when it's time
to join the 'real world'.

Sweetly sipping holiday cider
the usual melancholy,
but the bitterness
was always a surprise
and I felt much delight
with the bubbles
dispersing across the atmosphere
that was my mouth.  

The Day after
was a would be pleasant Monday--
thinking back I really
should have waited till Tuesday
everyone hates Tuesday less
and the people in my life
were no exception.

The Day after--
my mother washed dishes
it must be disturbing
as that was my household chore
they were shinier and cleaner
than any time I did them,
she noticed,
and grabbed a plate I had done
smiling and frowning
in the reflection it lacked.

The day after--
slack jawed and stooped
just finished piling
the heaviest cardboard boxes
my dad has ever had to carry
the possessions were clothes and photographs
but to him were
the weight of a casket.

The day after--
sleeping in my old bedroom
was my older brother
filling the curvature
my body had left
in the memory foam mattress,
as I wished for its name to become literal
so he could dream
my memories.

As I watched
not lived with my family
these feelings sunk
to the ocean floor
realizing the weight
that would crush my body
and cause my family
to collapse
the day after.