how did shadow walk into this light filled home?
did i forget to bolt the door? or leave a window ajar?
did he steal down my chimney while i slumbered in my bed?
while dreaming words of love and joy?

he sits at my table now, demanding another cup of grief from me.
how can i tell him he's emptied my cupboards? and what
will he do when i ask him to leave without quenching his thirst?

and why, oh why, do i want to offer him anything, anything at all,
if he would only stay?

"Write", she says.

"I have nothing to say", I answer.

But, of course, it is a lie.  I have plenty to say.
It is a matter of staying hidden.  

Sometimes, I want to be invisible.  

"Don't look at me", I say, "Just see me."

*I am the invisible substance of subconscious,
and I want nothing more than to be found.

The sounds spill from my mouth.
"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"

I look for words,
wanting to make some kind of sense.

That day you took your life,
I remember standing in my kitchen,
Wondering what will I make for dinner tonight.  

It's a cruelty of life, this going on with the mundane.

My world crashes like some
Like some
<insert a favorite cliche here>
Like some
<worn out country song>
Like some
I don't know what the **** to call it,

<It just ends.>

But the crazy, sad, infuriating part is this:


It doesn't.

Life just goes on.

And yeah,  I  cry while  I'm chopping the onions.

I cry when I am folding the laundry and I  come across a sock that once cradled your foot, and I  think,  

"What the ****? It's only a sock!"
Not some shrine to the foot that was:

'I love the ground he walks on'

But that's what it becomes.

Then I  just make those sounds.

"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"
"Whatwereyouthinking? "
"Iloveyouforeverwhy?"