Ludus to mania—
A love of playfulness
turned dark and
Estranged, a burgundy
of serial romantics.
When is enough?
does the obsession
Have an end,
Or will it continue
To be fed
by daily longing
And provocation,
a cruel satisfaction
From stopping the hearts
Of others, feeling fulfilled,
only to have the need
To do it
All
Over
Again.

Too many stem cells,
People metamorphosizing
Into versions of themselves:
passport photos
and feigned smiles—
Do they smash mirrors
when they are alone?
Does the pitch of their voice
Tell them that something
is wrong?
Do they see the seasons
change in their face
with every interaction,
The snow melting
into burnt sienna leaves?
We don’t need more
Chameleons in this world,
If only we could be satisfied
with our single souls

Is it in the strength
of our bones
That make some
able to stand up
and easily
defend themselves,
Stating assertive words
and walking off
without glancing back--
While others sit meekly,
Laughing off the unease
as a beguiling face
says everything
they want to hear--
Not knowing how
They could retreat
From the situation?
Or is it a choice,
to replace our joints
With mettle
and forget
the complacency
Of our old selves?

There was a weight
Of empty history
pressing on my heart,
Building plotlines
And extravagant arcs
in my mind--
I looked at the span
Of golden laughs
and pristine paper,
Frowning at the absence
Of stains
--Because shouldn’t I
Have dark spots
And redacted portions
like everyone else I know?
Was I just waiting,
Building up to something,
That would pour gasoline
On my bundle of flowers
That had bloomed
For so many years?
Was I to become
a fiery mess of cinder stems
And insubstantial ashes?
Maybe then, I could offer
Some guidance
That came from a place
of experience.
Rather than
Philosophizing off of
Flimsy observations--
Why are my struggles
so subtle, my life
A suburban dream,
And my past
an overcast sky
With no tempests churning
Through my memories?
I watch the dew,
The swing of the wind,
And only see misfortune
In the stillness before
a storm

Look at the time,
Its right on your wrist--
How could you have missed
That one little moment?
It seemed so very big
But to you,
I’m only a showman--
With nothing but lists
Of commands
And tired jazz hands