One,
who cannot handle
their opinions being questioned,
most likely hasn't derived them independently.

Heed the liars.
Beware of secrets.
Heed the false ones.
Beware of illusions.
How can I discern what's right?
Should I run from the dark or surrender?
Perhaps there's hidden magic within?
Confrontation is necessary.
Yet, I'm scared of being burnt by the light.
I don't want to expose the scars.
I weigh the options for eons.
I'm at war with myself.
Struggling to find truth.
Drowning in a black and white sea.
Only I can save myself.

SPEECHLESS
( for B. B. )

The page looked at me
blankly.

The words gathered
inside my head

but refused to
come out.

'Sorry mate...
we're on strike! '

'But why...? '
I cried.

'Do I have to spell it out
for you? '

'Write...write...write! '
'That's all you do! '

'You 'ave us up
all ****** night
it just ain't right! '

'No...I...don't! '
I lied...blatantly.

'Oh...who was that sentence
I saw you with last night? '

'That was no sentence...that was
my haiku! '

'And those poor vowels
...the howls! '

'Look, mate...we're consonants
so we can take it but

...a vowel's a vowel! '

'Now, it's just
our luck
that we're gone & got
ourselves an Irish poet

who is prone
to a little

internal vowel
rhyme! '

'Assonance! '
I said.

'Bless you Guv but
I don't cares wot you'se call it! '

'All we hear all night long is
O...E...I...U! '

And with that
they left

the whole ******
alphabet

absailing out of my head

marching down
my forearm

the whole ****** platoon
now on my patella

now turning at the door
saying: 'See ya fella! '

'Call yourself...call yourself
a ****** poet! '
they jeered

'We're off to Bryan Baker's
head! '

'Now...there's a poet! '

Slam!

The door was silent.

They were gone.

I was...
...I was

...speech-less!

Title-out of place- by meself.   A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games. Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange. Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,

No one knows the horrible thoughts within my head,
I grow tired of faking normal.
I look into the mirror and hate who is staring back.

The daymares are worse than the nightmares because they come without warning.
It is hard to fake normal when the daymares come and tears stream and the shaking begins.
I run for a place to close a door and lock it.
Lock out the world and grab my hair and pull and pull so hard that I try to pull the scenes out of my head.

I see them over and over every day. I hear the sounds. I lose my breath when the triggers come.
I tell my doctor that I am tired of faking normal.
I ask for medicine that will make me feel numb.

He asks me, "When was the last time you were happy?"
I pause, I think. I don't  remember.
My family doesn't understand so I have to fake normal.
I tell him I don't know how much longer I can hold on. Do something.
He says. I want you to seek counseling.
NO. It doesn't work.
Please.
NO. Just give me something so I won't think anymore.

I know that this PTSD is winning. Faking normal is coming to an end.
My doctor looks at me for the first time with the saddest eyes and says, "I'm worried about you."
I think to myself, You should be.

There’s a rhythm to that song. I think I know it.

The words, I’m not so sure.

But the rhythm, that’s what counts right? That’s where the feeling is, right?

I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t have the words.

Had no idea it was coming. Had no idea what to say.

But I knew how I felt. That’s what counts right?

Sometimes I have rhythm, sometimes I’m in time.

But I wonder, were you stepping on the same foot?

Or the opposite one? The right one?

And if I was dancing alone, was I dancing at all? Or just bumbling around like a recently evolved monkey.

Dance with me now. I write, you left