The cold metal door
lets loose leaves
in with a soft breeze.

I live in my own fish bowl,
a clear stream
of silver strings
swimming gently
with and against me
as I am moved
in a mad and melancholic melody.

Pressing against the edges of my prison,
I try to see beyond
the light splitting prism
into a new multi-dimensional spectrum.

Opening old books of fiction
as my own teddy bear seams split
letting my mental stuffing slip,
I reach and read each page into
a brand new pre-used
mental picture reality
that moves as rapidly
or as slowly as I desire

Do you think
I am immortalizing you too much?
Do you want to rest in peace?
My hands want to rest as well
But the heart never stops.
To me, the one grieving,
Nothing can ever replace you.
Not another person,
nor your favorite song.
Not a picture nor a place.
Not your sweater
nor your favorite weather.
Neither your favorite book with
the highlights of your favorite quotes,
nor the words
I speak of you.
Not even more time,
nor the memory of you.

if i told you i was sorry tor the marks you were about to see
would you ask what marks
or would you say i know what marks you are talking about
would you stick with me when i told you it happend for over a year
or would you turn your back on me and tell me i was hopeless
and garbage
but worst of all
if i showed you the marks
would you tell anyone else
or would you keep it to yourself
if i told you that i am sorry for cutting myself
would you lift up your sleeve and say
its ok i cut too
we will get through this together

You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.

He lay strangled by wires yet
they help him breathe into the
world that no longer has him
immersed in a lonesome and
broken reality.

For the first time he was surrounded
by family he found himself deep in
slumber so deep that he couldn’t
even see the tears that fell to paint
the picture of his journey as her
stream created a scene of a broken
man caught in a broken body with
a broken family who care not that
he is braking away from the tree.

The room flashing red, green
and yellow as the neon youth
watched over him hoping for
his eyes to burst open into a
watery welcome as the dam
bursts creating an acceptable
need for affection.

And all this happened peering
through the locks of grey that
stood before me strong and
broken with sweat from her
brow running down to rejoice
with the tears that fell from
her eyes as I stared into the
reflection of lost hope as his
heart rate jumped in anticipation
of the unknown.

Of all things I remember
I'll always recall the sunflowers;
Benevolent guardians that kept
Whimsical treasures from the wandering eye.

There was a slick magic they harbored
Bottled in their rich, sun darkened faces;
The surrendered seeds
We gathered against the wishes of the jays.

I grasped them, granted access to the castle on the creek
Lighthouse in the wood that beckoned back after
The last crawfish had wriggled free
The final apple was plucked,
And the birds had sought refuge.