I think someday now
You'll come 'home'
(Or, where you’re supposed to be)
Too much the same
But far from me

I wish we could have spoken deeper
(Though I shared my thoughts with only you
And was always left the better for it)
About where we'd gone
And where 'home' could be.

You did, once, mention your father
(And only how his mother died)
A poor barber in a frozen town
Who dreamed of life and death
(I presume)

How on a cold December, early century morning
His mother’s hearse, slick with ice and snow
Lost its way
And the horses brought it crashing down
To put her body on display

(Now all this time my wide eyes
And searching soul wondered:
Why the hint of a smile forming on your lips?)
You thought the whole fiasco
Could be out of a great Dickens’ tale

Yes you did, once, mention your father
But only how his mother died when he was young
(Just like your own) but nothing more
So tell me where is 'home'?
(Or where I'm supposed to be)

Sometimes in the mountains
On a wall up in the sky
I hear music

It’s not the wind through trees
Or falling rocks
(Those these chime in
From time to time)

But within my chest
My heartbeat thumps
My breath
Floats to my ears

A song you sang
I can’t recall
Is sung again
In me

They say if you can't go one day
Without thinking about it, then it's
Love.
But I don't love cigarettes,
Or that day my Uncle died.
I was seven
And I wasn't sure why I cried
But my dad stayed silent.
And where was my sister in all this?
I don't love my phone
Or email. In fact
I don't love books and words,
Or the softest stroke and scratch
Of pen to paper.
So when they say that,
I do my best and think of you.

every slight from you
even the smallest little gesture
speaks to me in words

sounds
which not misheard to foreign ears
form into thoughts

with vibrant tone and
run amuck
throughout our souls
and now this page

just enough to understand
but never there to translate

The artists all asked me
What does it feel like?
Gathered tight together round
A small black table
And they bent their bodies
To every touch
Then fell away

I couldn't form an answer
The creeping of my nerves
Down spine to spindly fingers
Sharp as rusty screws
And dull as achy bones
It felt like nothing

The writers all asked me
What were you thinking?
Sprawled out sedately upon
A sleepy couch
Tell it all but not too much
One said
And make sure it is true

The howling wind
And deathly silence
The great valleys of snow
Which stole my mind
A muffled cry in the bleak north

I the
Buried of
Meaning poem
This because
Just wasn't
There At
One. not
Least i
That find
Could...

Am I convincing?
When I try and act cool
And hardly say a
Word

Lately I've been quite skeptical
Of myself
As you drift through me
And I get nervous

But there are ways of being convincing, like,
Writing words,
Doing drugs,
Checking the time,
More than twice.

Are you convinced,
I don't care?