Intermittent scribbles in a brand new leather journal.
Hoping even just one line becomes something eternal.
Searching for the perfect words, or poignant points to make,
I lay there, thinking, three a.m, and I'm still wide awake.
Pretty rhymes to pass the time, if no soul ever reads,
I write these words for mockingbirds and fun, no thoughts of greed.
The verdant, rolling plains of the space within my skull,
Spill forth in excess on the page when life is feeling dull.
Words give life to drying ink, a pause between each line,
To choose the words which through the years remind me what is mine.

Sliced from forehead to toe-tip
i am the naked
revealed.
what is seen cannot be reversed,
for all your scarves and blindfolds.
And I fear, sir,
That you have seen my soul.
In crowed rooms you hunted me,
singled out my tattered being for your prey.
I prayed like the mantis
to a mythical power for salvation,
but your eyes, relentless as your hands,
made me beneath you and before you,
to come undone.
If smite i could,
trust this; I would.
you are no kind soul
looking to help the weary traveler.
you are, as ever,
the vulture in disguise.
I am coming to believe
there exists nothing else.
I am only of worth
as long as i am of use.
And lately i only feel useless.

I wonder what you hold in the pockets of your jeans
the ones you won't throw out
because of the
"maybe one day"
or
"just in case"
I wonder if you slip those jeans on
in the dead of night
remembering what you hold so dearly
so dearly
you wont get rid of
but wont show
I wonder, I wonder, I do