You wore a complex pattern on your face,
one that I hadn’t seen for a while,
and I didn’t think I could fix it this time.

You looked at me and said “I’m fine, and it’s not your fault,”and the fake smile was plastered onto your perfect freckled face.

I think it hurts more when you lie,
I think you lie more when you’re hurt.

Speak to me now, my friends,
I'm trading all of my companions for attention,
dwelling in an abandoned theater's spotlight and short lived rides home.

Laugh at me now, my dear,
I swear to God I wont lash back,
I've found immunity to the sadness that pairs itself with being alone.

Yell at me now, my mentor,
though we both know that I'm not the problem,
you've singed your hands in your fire and now you turn to me for answers.

Hate me, my conscience,
I wanted to be an artist or a saint,
I'm finally understanding that I don't have what it takes.

What will we do when we all fall in love with each other.

When the blind infatuation seeps into our delicate skin and poisons the blood coursing through our innocent veins.

When the "mild" jealousy hides the secret hatreds behind the masks of friendship that we all so desperately wear.

When we rip our sanctuary apart from the inside out because it seemed as though it didn't love us back.

When we lose it all for the possibility of a temporary romance.

What will we do when we all fall in love with each other?

My blood runs down the warm steel strings.
My fingers ache.
The noise stops.
My pathetic attempt to cope by writing a song about you has failed.

Turning the pages of Sunday’s paper,
eyes spilling tears upon reading
of the ambush killing of a local cop,
and  elsewhere, cops as killers,
the horror of the murders
of twenty angels and their guardians
at a small-town school,
people just having a holiday party,
going to a movie,
people attending church, for god’s sake.
I make my way to the sports section,
that fantasy-land of touchdowns,
home runs and slam dunks,
only to find stories of drunken outfielders
and homicidal/suicidal linebackers
wielding pistols
followed by a half-page ad
for the Guns and Gear store,
urging me to get in on the deals—
an assault rifle, only $649.99,
semi-automatic pistols from $319 to $549,
all the ammo a person could need
to shoot up a school, a theater, a mall, a business,
a synagogue or mosque or church,
even an army base.
My sorrow vinegars to frustration and anger,
that my letters to so-called representatives
must be written on thousand dollar bills
to even get a reading,
answered by a staffer’s reply that says nothing,
and, in the end, dear god,
I’m left with prayer and poetry,
the children of necessity, drowning in futility.