Too many eyes are looking at the painting of
yesterday me and can't even
acknowledge me anymore and so
I learned to hide behind it
and walk around with it hanging over
my face
and it's nice not seeing anyway.

Too many souls are buried under the landfill
where a city once stood
where a tree once grew from
tears of creatures and people
and where children laughed a long
long time ago
forgotten under a
rotten smell

Even love is useless if we all refuse to use it.
does that mean we don't deserve to feel ?
No one wants to think about karma and
a kindness that we lack and the depths
of the twisted psychology of greed
taking over instead of basic need.

Too many lives are wasted,
too many stories copied and pasted
and bodies walking without brains
in a dark and menacing place
that leaves no trace of the
hearts left beating in the rains.

i was going to try to write a poem
but i fail when i try to do anything
i fail when i try to do nothing
i fail

failure is relative
who taught me this warped definition
taught me a fake identity
tried to make me impossibly inhumanly
errorless?

why is it that i cry?
why is it that anybody would
WISH to die?
WHY why why why are there so many
questions ringing in my head,
and all of yours too
(I recognize the agony
just like inside of me)
Why why why
why is it that I cry?

I force my anger into mirrors
and breaking them, almost
as easily as breaking people,
but it doesn't take away
anything.

The thing that infuriates me even more
is pretending
it doesn't
exist.

And I cry.

I'm tripping over myself
falling into a
funny daze or a dance or
a trance and I can't recover;
I'm running circles
in a paper house that's bound
to tip or burn into the ground.

Shackled by leaves and vines,
confined in words and rhymes,
lost in a moment trying to find
peace within my mind
Longing for a place that's just
Over there, just there, I must
Reach it, keep walking moving
constantly moving, the earth
is moving without my help so
I can't stop for long or else
I'll realize I'm useless.

I call it thinking but I'm a liar
to myself and I'm a fire
determined to never go out
and never tire
My "thoughts" are only circles, only games,
and my face is never the same,
every day I change again
and try to avoid my shame again
running circles in my paper house that's bound
to tip or burn into the ground.

He off-smiled
and she off-laughed
and they held hands and
walked through a Christmas-card-town
perfectly straight, perfectly perfect
legs perfectly in sync
leaving Kenneth Cole footprints
in the perfect snow
worthy to be captured
worthy of being envied
perfectly perfect.

They walked and were
perfectly off-happy
perfectly deceptive as they
simultaneously, wordlessly
wondered at happiness.

The Avoidance Game
is like too much makeup.
Painful and obvious.

Sometimes it hurts so much to look
in the mirror forgetting
faces in moonlight and truth
spoken like silvery spider webs
without fear
a world without fear; imagine.

Imagine looking up and
having a recognizable reflection.
I wish you missed your face like
we do.

there are moments between breaths
and pieces of air between
strands of hair

and times when silence speaks

but really, your mind is
just used to being shouted over
just restless and lonely and
fogged over

there are seconds
and days and weeks
and years

and there are those periods of time
with no name
between pencil touching paper

echoes haunt the silence