I know the horror
how you can't undress
without feeling like
a ******* mess.

There's got to be something
more than this,
just write until
your thoughts aren't as heavy.

Everyone glances
but nobody reads:
Pour your emotions
into a glass that
nobody drinks.

There's got to be something
more than
vulnerable words in vain:
a medicine
that increases the pain.

I know the horror
how you can't reveal
the fullest extent
of how you feel.

There has to be something
more than a glance,
to help you feel heard;
to validate your world.

Just learn to write
and let it all go,
even if nobody notices
or nobody knows.

Because there is something
more than this.

Your crooked smile flows upward
and I can see it from the ground.
Haunting myself with
a film teacher's creature feature
in black and white,
an old orchestra for sound.

You said you'd get nervous
when on our clunky telephone;
saying that customer service
could hear the fibers
in your voice
rustle like tall, dry grass,
with a wind whispering through
confirming, with every breath,
that you feel alone.

We'd recite fifties sitcoms:
Honey, do you --
do you have the keys?
Well, gee whillikers,
I could use someone to
open me, close me, and
dispose of me, please.

I write this for no one,
which is the category you fall in.

Sincerely,
signed Issues,
P.S. The television
is in color,
and I don't miss you.

- There ain't hope in the U,
the S is for Show me your soul,
the A is for Always forget:
the United States of
Killing it, Killing it -

The trees give me shelter
When the rain comes on down! The trees give me comfort when noone is around.

The trees have a silence, holding in the earthing secrets. Tree's are not violent, they keep still, quiet, perfect.

The trees make love to the clouds, as baby raindrops they create, but the trees are dying like you and me, their feeling the worst of the universes fate.

I wake up as She
and she's auditioning soon;
vying for a part no one can play
but everyone auditions for anyway.

And so we all sit in those
steel foldable chairs that never
get folded back into their original
form, because the bodies always
keep them warm.

The original selves
long for something else to be;
troubled souls in search for
broken homes; like the hidden
shadows of the known unknown.

I am her lips as they
part, close together
like the jaws of a shark,
reciting lines back to the director
crooked and parallel, aligned
waves of soft sounds; they reach
the peaks of receptacle body language
only to suddenly fall back down
barely scathing the director's emotions.

The director sees that there is talent
that lies within the woman;
I am her, and I was
a father of three darling daughters
not too long ago...

But I stand before the director
as her, and there are others
patiently waiting,
like the anchored piranhas
of the binary forest,
the Stygian vultures
of the neon desert;

and they vouch for
each other's safety
until they have landed
the Oscar award winning
scene; the all white cast
beams like the headlights
of an oncoming car.

Their hands free of guilt
washing the darkness away
from my rising star, my ship
no longer corroded brown
but assimilated, organized,
gentrified;

a man redesigned,
retrofitted and recombined
standing before the petrified
live audience as Her
in an ocean blue
dress;

a blood capsule
ready to burst with
finite increments
of happiness.

It was mid-August,
maybe later, when I developed
feelings for my best friend.

I think I knew
when I saw that
the trees in the
backyard were dying;

they stopped producing
oranges, their leaves were
soggy, pitiful trinkets.

It was the day after
I stopped believing in Santa;

my mother saw it on my face
when she turned around
and offered me toast bread.

I usually ate bread with my
oatmeal, but the spoon
was still on the table;

the oatmeal still in the bowl.

She asked me what was wrong
and I shrugged. I wanted to say
I was in love.

I wanted to ask if being in love
always felt this terrible; I didn't
care to go back to school, nor
study, nor become the doctor
they wanted me to be.

But that's when my father came in.

I was sent upstairs
to my room, and was told
to memorize the fifty
states.

In between reciting their names,
I could hear my father yelling
over my mother, and my mother
choking on the words, don't leave.

I could feel myself choking too.

So I walked to my window
and saw the dying orange tree;

then I thought of my friend

and how I'd like to play

with her again.

When the city falls asleep
And the lights are all turned off
There’s a weeping you can hear

Of a mother
Of a child
Of a soldier
Of a heart
The weeping is prolonged

It torments me to compare
The tears that are being shed
To the thousands of stars on the evening sky

And how unfortunate for the moon
To have to witness such a fool
Writing so late at night

But this is something I cannot miss
A tear is often taken for granted
But many at once is such a bliss

It gives me hope
It fills me with faith
That people feel at night
Even if they hide behind a mask during the day

Look at the reality
Losing our scerenity
To those without integrity
Doomed is humanity
With their insanity
Hatred and obsenities
Marking their territories
The innocent in morturies
Caught up in tragedy

When will we learn?

I'm fine
(No i'm not)
Go out? I will
(No I won't)
Had a brilliant night
(Stayed at home)
Dinner was a delight
(Ate alone)
Had a hot relaxing bath
(Chilled to the bone)
We did have a laugh
(Inside was hollow)
I look happy
(I lost my soul)