To paint my words
Even for myself
Legibly if only one time
For the earth quake to rise around me
Stitched together against each
shake each rock and tree and creature
The wind to pull at the hair
Of every person at whom I want to scream
The fury of the storm to
Make them hear for once

This quilted swell of sundry
Growing fungus and weeds
Shaking off vermin with each
Clap
Of thunder rolling underneath
Hills of cotton patchworked with the calm
Cool grass distracting
From the rage
The swell
Underneath

Tiles
Soaking in cold processed air
Licking with every step
feet bare and made damp
by the mornings dew

gooseflesh marks bare arms
baked from the sun
confused by the rain

mixed signals
from room to room
from out to in
in one moment bright and burning
energetic as the sun
in the next flashed by
new room
new rain

relationships half built
abandoned for the better option
lonely walks
awkward eye contact
misplaced affection
stretched thin and frayed

The gecko
stuck behind a glass door
is a better friend
a warmer soul
a more significant heat
sharing my own space

I orientate myself
from one room to another
different worlds cramped
on a single plot of land

Reason tells me I am not alone
the full bed sharing
my cold and processed space
says 'there are others like you'
but full fields I cannot open
full rooms I pass through
as a ghost through a wall
call 'you are lonely'
and there is no one
(but myself)
to blame

And some times
I wonder, Why it is,
that I find my soul
in quotes
The lilting prose
of days long past
The musing of drummer
And loon
The careful clause of music
Over a roaring note

I wonder
Where my heart is
That I see it floating by
And feel it
Pulse with life
Only on paper

For as I walk
Down roads of wary men
I search
I grasp
And feel nothing
Feel no breath
No life
Only fear
Prickling under skin

The shame of being
‘them’
the shame of not understanding
‘them;
as they stretch out
arms grasping for a friend
a rival, a lover, a stranger
I wonder how it is
That they have the courage

I wonder how it is
That I find my soul
On paper
And over and again
In song
And watch it float by
In culture

I wonder how it is
That any person
Who knows how I feel
Who felt my shame
Has the courage
To put those words
On display

In a world of tree bark and sand stone
she was silk.
Where others croaked and barked
her voice caressed. Where they lumbered along
with pounding footsteps
her feet ghosted o’er the ground.
Their age is painted on their skin
in wrinkles, spots, and scars while
she reflected newborn innocence.
They grapple, she embraced.
They bellow, she chimed.

Around her the brown,
the grey,
the worn and weary,
the walking dead
swayed like crumbling monuments
lit only by her glow.

But in a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk cannot last.

Her voice, so soft and quiet
below their din grows hoarse
as she fights to be heard. She loses
her footing as the ground
shakes with their steps and learns
to keep their time
just so she might stay up
right. In their pain she wallows,
frown lines slowing eroding her as
the sorrow sets in.

She learns to match their strength.
Her laughter is drowned in their cries.

In a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk gets caught, gets pulled.
Strands are ripped and unraveled,
the pieces are trampled,
covered.

The lingering rags falls to the ground,
forgotten but for the memory that once
their was something beautiful
where they lie.

There is a monster in my soul
Wreaking havoc
Wrecking reason
and I only wish
I knew the words
to let it out.

The angels watching over me
to hold me as I sleep
the father with the Earth in hands
My soul is his to keep
My mother's mother's fairy tales
her daughters blinding trust
When tragedy and misery
convince her that she must

In wooden pews and basement rooms
with bible tightly clutched
I listened to the fairy tales, the fables forming rust
On alter I held out my hands
to catch the chunk of bread
That pastor always said to me
where flesh of the son long dead

Fifteen years of song and dance
Fifteen years of grace
Fifteen years spent listening
their stories gone to waste

But the world grows larger
the questions too
and the faith is quickly lost
replaced by science, philosophy
common sense dethrones the cross

I want so desperately to believe
for your sake more than mine
Eternal life is a dream to me
but I hate to see you cry

My mother's mother passed her faith
by my mother I have failed
She prays for me each day and night
but her worries I can't assail

Oh mother, mother can't you see
this faith is yours not mine
The word of God is not enough
but maybe, give me time.

Angels I have heard on high
in God I place my trust
It's the son, the cross, that I decline
He's your savior, not mine.

As angels lay me down to sleep
I hope one day you'll see
My mother's mother's parables
lend no comfort to me

Oh mother, mother can't you see
it kills me when you pray
for something I cannot give you
and by each passing day
your expectations grind at me
they make it hard to stay
Oh mother, mother I'm begging you
don't push me away

The father watching over us
holds me as I sleep
and comforts me each night as my anxiety will creep
into me heart, I trust in him
but thats all I can give
let it be enough for you
I'm trying, let me live.

I suffer from secondhand sorrow.

When other people's problems
weigh on you
like a beast.

When you ache and weep and wilt
under the pressure
of someone else's strife.

Secondhand sorrow
grips around the throat
clutches in the stomach
and beats the mind to grains.

All the while a guilt festers
in the havoc of my soul
because secondhand sorrow
weighs on my mind
while it should be free
to care about you.