In my mind, I was
Prepared for your presence.
As if you would illuminate my world and
Tear down my mental fortress;
I was prepared for everything to be
ok.
So these preparations became the most daunting of dreams;
Wonders and hopes of everything
Actually
Being
ok,
And even after you monotonously sauntered into my physical world
And everything hopelessly remained the same, if not worse,
I kept dreaming.
Months after, I dreamt.
Prepare? More like pretend,
Pretend that you, in fact, never did
Physically saunter
Into my monotonous world.
That you, somewhere, existed
In a consistent aura of love and affection,
Or even in just the sense of an ability to love would've been
ok.
You had to exist somewhere because,
For god's sake,
It surely couldn't be here;
This surely couldn't be the you I had dreamt of.
And it wasn't, it was the you that was irrevocably you
You were as good as you were going to get.
And I was the same.
Indifferent.
Incapable of loving anyone,
Let alone you.
This was the "ok" that I had so long awaited,
and I was certainly not
ok.
So I dreamt.

How long can one continue to dream?
How long until they off themselves on the realization of the inescapability of hopelessness?
How long can one lie to themself?
The reluctant truth is that every reachable
"ok"
Is really not ok at all.
ok is miserable and impossible and
ok
Ceases
To
Exist
Amongst those who are miserable enough to admit this reluctant truth.
ok is putrid and a liar because
I'll never be ok.
And I'll always say I am.
And you'll, from time to time, saunter back into my monotonous melancholy of an "ok"
And I'll never be happy.
And one day I'll off myself on the reluctant hope that there is an
ok
Existing beyond you and I;
Beyond everything that I've dreamt of.
Because none of that was ever ok.
It was only a dream.
And all I've done is woken up.

An expressionless face upon a white wall;
A mask which holds no meaning at all.
Uncover the truths behind empty plastic
And beneath it lies a story of a matter more drastic.

You can criticize the outside but not what's within;
Meaningless gibes at a person's fragile skin.
Denying the artwork of a creased, bruising hand;
Destroying the armor that enables one to stand.

Forget all your problems, this is one chance to see
Who the person with the mask of a lonely soul could be.
With a loss of stubborn pride, you can finally withdraw
And befriend all the minds whose depths you never saw.

it's not that there's anything
wrong
          with me.


                 it's just that there's nothing
right.

Do you ever imagine
That the ground beneath your aching body just
Breaks?
& though the sound a heavy teardrop makes
Rings in your ears,
You continue to float.
When the fix is gone,
& every hope in your aging mind again
Shatters.
Forced words insist you're all that matters,
But every flaw ends up
Caught in your throat.
So as you wallow, you sail;
Your vessel is sunken and your lilo - in as
Many pieces as you are.
Your wings, however,
As bruised as they may be,
Provide a path for your broken bones.
It may not lead anywhere but
"Anywhere but here".
& that's ok.
I'm ok.
You're ok.
Just float.

If my love has not confessed to you
That this ending was unplanned,
Then to your mother please stay true, for
In your life I no longer stand.

I do remember when the world was kind
And I held you in my arms,
But as I dodged these hate-stung bullets,
Life lost its fragile charm.

In war's ruins my body now lies;
Beaten and covered in dust.
Your mother: broken by this fatal news,
In I, you have lost all your trust.  

If my love has not confessed to you
That this ending was unplanned,
Then to your mother please stay true, for
In your life I no longer stand.

Every day
on the orange-line metro, she would wait;
wait with her lovely mahogany harp
and it's worn, threadbare case
for a dollar;
a piece of tangible hope,
as delicate strings of rhythm
filled her ears
and controlled her senses.
What people couldn't see
was the way her soul poured itself
into each pluck of a fragile string,
and how her eyes remained
fluttering,
as the entire symphony
harmonized around her insignificant tune;
vibrating through her chest;
booming through the auditorium,
which was really just an orange-line metro
and a lone woman with a lovely mahogany harp.
So the empty case came as no surprise
to anyone
except her,
as she shed a single warm tear
and stepped off the train into the cold, bitter night.