Voices saying nothing.
Never stopping.
Maybe we’ll crash.
Maybe I’ll fly.

Music from nowhere
“I feel bad for her fiancée or whatever he is”
I know your face.
I’ve seen your insides.
Maybe I’ll fly.

Empty eyes.
Empty smile.
“Like no offence to her but she’s too shy”
Maybe we’ll crash.
Maybe I’ll fly.

Pounds to tons.
Routine to chaos.
Maybe we’ll die,
But maybe I’ll fly.

There are those who shout loudly for human rights,
But they’ve misplaced the bullseye for that fight.
Falsely believing that their sight is long,
But misaligned convictions can still be strong.

I hear the patter and clatter of clapping horse feet.
Tips of glue, carrying pounds of meat.
Transportation, labour, food, or tool.
An atrocity to fight for a hopeful fool.

To stop and think.
To feed and free.
Steps to take, though measuredly.

An occasional hit.
First one then another.
A way to cope,
With ourselves,
With each other.

An open dialogue on common ground.
A way to bring the temperature down.

But there’s no need to fuss,
And who ever wanted to be rude?

We all feel that we know what’s right,
But when we reflect we just might

Find that our actions
Aren’t always
In accord with our attitudes.

I feel the prickles on my skin, and the tingling in my spine.
I know that there’s a voice he hears, and I know it isn’t mine.
I temper my self-torture, for I know there are no stakes.
But I fear he likes the sounds that other women make.

I warm and bathe in worry. I feed my envy and it grows.
I boil and seethe over, and hope my anguish never shows.
I temper my reactions, for I fear imminent  mistakes.
When I see he likes the sounds that other women make.

I feel some sort of sadness, and feel compelled to make it hate.
I know these thoughts of mine are madness, but imagined wounds can’t be erased.
I clench, and my fists clutch, and I hope that my bones break,
So I’ll forget he likes the sounds that other women make.

I lose sight of my sanity, letting my fragile ego break.
I lament it might provoke in me my gravest faults to date.
I dwell and I obsess, and wonder how much I can take
When I face the fact he likes the sounds that other women make.

Do I wish to live among them?
Sometimes “yes”, most often “no”.
In that mix of grazers grazing,
Until they’re told it’s time to go.
Would I let them sheer me?
Feed me? Breed me?
In some other life,
Perhaps, who knows?
But terms like “trending topics”
Tend to wound my very soul.
And only rarely have I found another
Who can understand my goal.

But halt!

I fear that I can take no more,
My cup has already overflowed.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

You may want to be the same
In thought and function,
Form and name,
But let me be diverse.

You may choose a path and hold it true,
And that may be what’s best for you,
But let me choose my course.

And when you feel the urge to fight,
Or prove your point
To prove you’re right
Pause to gaze upon the starry night,
And feel your true place in the universe.

A deafening bang. A blinding flash.
A tortured scream, then malicious laugh.

We are magic.
Are we are monsters?

Come here; compassion barely holds.
And without passion care is cold.
All love leads to sacrifice.
We have the virtue to chose our vice.

Are we magic?
Are we monsters?

There is conviction in the heart of man.
There is beauty in his eye.
But the sums of soft concerns sound loudly
To drown out harder crimes.

We are magic; we are monsters.

We tell our “truths”.
They paint our world.
We’re practiced.
We’re patient.
We’re porous.

We are magic. We are monsters.