freud called me corrupt,
he had a love affair with *******.
so what could he know,
about the conditions of my brain.
it cost 65 cents to send a letter;
that is 65 cents wasted
not writing that i love her.
but you would think
that if she loved me back
she would read in between the lines
and actually saw
what i was burning inside to write
but never had the courage to.
i now think maybe you don’t
have to be in love
to read in between the lines
because she never wrote me back.
i have been away, but not gone.
just quiet and alone - thinking.
maybe i am scared to be happy
in fear of forgetting the sad.
so i'll stay where i thought comfort was
in the land of the broken mad.
trust me i’ve gone, it's the harshest place
carpeted by the rocks and stone.
the dwellers there hide from themselves in
an ancient desert of dry bones.
i just don't think that i said this right
oh reader, please dont hear me wrong
it’s not that i am wanting of death
i just can’t listen to happy songs.
i don’t think i am that sad either.
what am i expected to feel?
if spectrums of feeling do exist.
then are the highs and lows most real?
and am i stuck in between the two
the dusty place of sand and void
feeling nothing of a great sadness
or even overwhelming joy?
in lambent glare, a frozen stare
at pictures bordered white
they held within two lovers' grins:
past moments of delight.
his icy rage made pale his face
as photos burned by night
catharsis reached, he felt the heat
and smiled at the light.
on napkin a note
i saw what you said,
“we’re both god un-made
and later forbid”.
find wholeness in lack
of words never said,
please lull out the cracks
they’ve put in my head.
— The End —