the mirror used to show her reflection
her hair that twirled at the ends
the way her lips  stre e e e ched when she smiled
her eyes clear like they'd never seen a storm
masked with childlike innocence,
an antique veil that wears away
slowly
letting light seep in
thinner each year
until she looks one day
at her reflection in the mirror,
eyes truly open for the first time
and there's a spotlight on her flaws
that she'd never seen before
like a blindfold lifted
she's squinting in the sun
and she rubs her eyes but can no longer see
the twirled hair and smiling lips
that had been before.

As fear lurks in the doorway
in the middle of the night
you quiver and you question
you reach to find the light
not once d'you pause to think
to find your inner hope
to gather up your courage
to find a way to cope.
for danger is a villain,
he'll make you want to hide.
but the quest to find your courage
begins with what's inside.

I wanna be one of those girls
in the movies
who has big doe eyes to drown in,
looking out at the city lights
living out her Romeo and Juliet.
she gets sad sometimes, sure,
strumming tragedy on her guitar
but that's ok.
because no matter how bad it gets for her
there'll always be a happy ending
in the movies.

as I ride the J toward the eastern sun
my gears clicking questions at the photogenic view
I wonder
what type of medium was used for this art

if I were to paint the sky...
it would be a kindergarten crayola rendition
yaaa                                                   ­                             
a                                                               ­     
a                                                            
w ­                                                               
w­                                                        
n       ­                                       
i                                          
n                   ­                                 
                      g magenta seeping into the gray horizon

only the blurred lines of youth
could bring color to such places

God must have been a child before it died

when an ambulance siren cries at night
she shuts her eyes and blocks her ears,
staying sheltered in her snow globe of youth.
'cause maybe if she doesn't hear it
it's not really there.

Have you heard of Gus?
Probably not.
He’s a street cleaner, you see.
On the other side of town, where no one actually lives  
Except crumbling houses and rusted mailboxes  
And ghosts, if you believe in that kind of thing.
They must’ve stopped paying him years ago
When his job was no longer needed
‘Cause people were moving away from those parts
To the city, where creativity is a corpse under pavement.
So Gus works alone on the streets,
Sometimes I see him if I pass through the park.
Just cleaning away without a care in the world,
His companions a broom, clippers, a bucket, a sponge,
Whistling old folk songs to himself
As he sweeps up the sidewalks and pulls all the weeds,
Tames the wild lawns that nobody owns,
And cleans the windows with every ounce of his being,
Looking in, and never looking out.
And sometimes he just stands there, staring
At his reflection in the sparkling glass
Just adjusts his rugged uniform, 20 years out of date, sometimes picks at his teeth
Or something.
Sometimes I wonder why he does what he does,
It makes me angry to see him waste away his days
It’s like a symphony played to deaf ears
Or a sonnet written to the blind
It’s like rain on a parking lot,
It’s not helping anything to grow.
It’s just there, just there, nothing more.
I want to yell to him, to tell him to get a real job
To just trash that uniform, the supplies, just move on.
But still he remains, his whistling breaking
The silence of a street left to rot.