The grip on my disposable razor
Is tighter than the grip of my own reality.
Reflection distorted by the humid condensation,
I still see my hands trembling as I shave.
I still see the designer bags under my eyes.

The familiar aroma of shaving cream,
Paired with the sobering twinge
Of the nicks from my razor.
The haphazardly spilled pills,
Horizontal bottles in the medicine cabinet.

White-knuckling the porcelain sink,
Decorated with dried toothpaste and the blood of my gums.
I reflect to my reflection
Distorted by drip drops of tap water,

“Am I still myself?
Or simply a prospect of my own delusion?”

Change starts
With the formation of habit.
The simplest action
Will flip that switch in your frontal lobe.

The reason we call
What we do on a regular basis
A habit,
Is because we live in the decisions we make everyday.

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?”

I can tell you where,
Drive to the church off of the gray gravel road.

There you will be greeted
By dim witted deacons and the dead.
Parades of pink lily slippers
Masquerades this melancholy sensation.

Surrounded by galleries of gravestones
Belonging to both babies and Baby Boomers.

You can visit.
Surrender your problems to the dirt,
The decaying.

They are dead,
Forever.
They cannot hear what you are saying.

You are
What the world
Sees you as.

Your posture is poor
Neck stooped,
With shoulders hunched.

You are too morose
To see the world
Explode in color behind you

You could be a prince,
Donned in pastel garments,
Yet, you see yourself as a peasant.

Filthy,
Lowly,
And especially lonely.

With my head held high,
Feeling light.
I jaunt down the avenue.

The heels of my feet unsteady,
“This sailor still has his sea legs!”
I gargle as my body stumbles,
Tumbles,
Face bloodied on asphalt and rubble.

Even though my mug is mangled,
My bottle is intact.
And that is what truly matters.

The glass cannot break;
Shred my being to tatters!
Before I part from my everlasting bond
Of neck in hand.

One last swig!
Before I head out to sea.
I may drown…
But there’s no drink in the deep.

I turned ten two days ago.
You were born today,
Yet you will never draw your first breath.

Your lips,
Inherited the reddest hue of cardinal feathers.
Your skin,
Pale and soft like fresh Pennsylvania snow.

I never knew what your eyes looked like,
They never opened.
Infinite iris colors
That will never be discovered.

When I held you in my arms,
The guiding hand of God drifted away.
I gave the coldest of shoulders I suppose,
Dust drifting in the air conditioned delivery room.

I looked outside the hospital window.
The dead leaves fluttered in the bitter wind,
Time stood still that day,
For me, just a little kid.

She stares at the stars,
Her eyes nibble the Milky Way
Like that of a candy bar.

I have yet to see eyes that compare
To hers.
Aglow with lunar light.
Her gaze aided with crescent moon contact lenses.

And then I could see what she saw.
Her eyes…
They were infinite,
Just like the space she stared at.

No concerto of cosmic colors
Could tear me from her tranquil gaze.

I get lost in her eyes,
Just as she gets lost in the skies.