He tasted like cigarettes and baser intentions
The spiced hint of whiskey on his thunderstorm tongue
The kind of rebellion that young girls lie for
With soft, swollen lips, and nowhere to run

City of rust punctured by stone
Where the rain only stops for the snow
Painting with a palette of opiates and pocket change
She'll christen the night with a smoke

Empty spaces
Blank mind traces
Of what I could once do
Wonderful descriptions
Unfinished stories
Of children running
From banal dangers

New depths of mental pain evoke
Change in me
How did that child think?
I can’t find the words
Or remember

The grapple for more adult structure
But simply lack the
Vocabulary
Once proud of a sentence
Now every letter is saturated with
Insignificance

Life is like a sound
You correct it when it's out of  tune.

I have this friend
          (it's really me)
Who has this girlfriend
          (who's really she)
Who has this quirk
          (really several)
Which she'd deny
          (which is another)
She's not anti-gay,
Sees right past color, creed and ethnicity;
Sees women for being women,
Men for men,
And any combination thereof,
And vice versa.
No, she can see right past bigotry,
Is blind to prejudice,
But has an innate drive that goes straight for wardrobe.
From the gowns of celebs,
To the color of Alex Trebek's tie.
A sartorist, that's what she is.
          
          I heard that.
          And I am not.

          (contrary too)

if you want to change
what you're all about
it's best you start
from the inside out

where the cracks aren't
so easily seen
you most often have
the greatest need

as you work on it
with trowel in hand
a lifetime spent
with filling in

word to the wise
take this advice
start with the cracks
on the inside