Redundancy.
I read my words
and I’m sickened,
that you had this
effect on me. I read
them and I’m fatigued
by the redundancy.
I have nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
in the same way
only reconstructed
to better play the illusion
of new ideas and
some sort of change.
There is always the basis
the substance of being
the substance being
my overactive feelings
and constant repression
of what makes me alive—
this feeds the depression
and I cry when I think
and I’m dead when I don’t
I’m lying when I speak
and lying when I don’t
I’m fighting every day
my feelings when I
have them, and finding
every day, I have more than
I can fathom, and I can’t
always put into words
how or why I feel things
so I tend to repeat
what comes naturally
and when I reread
I am exhausted by
my own redundancy.

I awoke
at the crack
of dawn

to a blood red sun
-a bullet hole
in a faded work shirt

with a creak in my bones
a quick kiss and a groan

I thanked her
and slipped out
the back door

before her old man
came home.

r ~ 8/30/14

I am frightened
the world will break me,
wring brittle bones in iron fists
till they lie in porcelain shatters.
All the king's horses
and all the kings men,
will sweep me under the rug
with half of history,
and a score of lost souls.

Sitting on this dusty shelf, pretty as can be.
Inside this little locked up room is all your glass eyes see.

Seeing what's around you, knowing nothing more.
If only you could break through this wooden door.

Such a pretty face, imperfections there are none.
Too bad when you were made, your life was already done.

Pity is for you, you're such a pretty doll.
If only you could see what lies beyond these walls.