Thin brown arms
safely secure themselves
in a little lawn chair
as the sweet old lady
sits there to stare
up at space.

With very little
light pollution
she can see
the majesty
of the evening sky
clearly.

The night is silent,
shaded by purple grey clouds
that cut across
the blinking expanse
at an awkward angle.

But this
evening’s bliss
is broken
by spastic shots
somewhere
down the block.

The sounds of a siren
causes tension.
Her stomach tightens
in fear
until she hears her
young sons voice.

Farewell
to the
fairytales
that children tell.

We make
no more time
passing on
a long-gone songs
or simple rhymes.

Our taste for
the truly sublime
is past its prime.

The sweetness
of diversity
in creativity
has lost its longevity.

Whilst fools
clamor for
simple stories
and boring sports,
I grieve deeply
for the loss
of dreaming,
of seeing
and believing
great things
are future possibilities.

So, I serenade strangers
in poetry,
put on a parade
that nobody sees
and wait to die
unmourned by
the unmoved masses
of human cattle.

I know,
it does not load
the whole truth,
the pixels are blurred
and though
their mouths
are open wide
I cannot hear
what they say.

I cannot
feel their pain,
or taste
previous passions
that were once
plucked
from their
plump lips.

I know
time will
eclipse
all this
making
their meaning
even more
of a mystery to me.

So, I see them
in shades of black and white
renderings of
their strange and wonderful
past existence.

They may be dead
or still growing,
showing
new sides
of their lives
or refracting
different angles.

All I know for certain
is though I am intrigued
by what wonders I see

I really don’t know them.

These are not triggers
but poignant
pen points pricking
my nostalgia
by pulling potent
sensory information.

Like little electrodes
they let go and explode.

Strawberry and chocolate

take me back to
a place I don’t want to
revisit,
an old housing complex
that I am no longer missing.

The sound of a piano
let’s me let go
and fall with the flow
of fantastic chords,
back to the floor
by the wooden door
frame
next to my grandma’s
******* piano.

A cold concrete step
or warm summer sweat
lets me get a taste of
things I forgot
but still love
like grandma’s
raisin cinnamon swirl buns.

Memories’ mission
for what is missing
and needs remembering
seeds these things inside of me
to produce a crop
of reminiscence
and I am still recalling
bits and parts of them.

They call it BPD
A illness that shapes me,
Its the “I don’t fit in” disorder,
The “Your the one who’s out of order.”
Come to terms I now admit,
How hard I felt each near hit.
Always one with the conflict,
feelings of A counterfeit.
There turns A time of no cease,
absence of light is unleashed,
out of the blue from the inside,
this empty form and crowded mind.
A Diagnosis is in ..
The cerebrums burnt,
like third degree skin,
Its now over sensitive to everything.

The cause of the burns,
Is internal fires,
that incinerated mental wires.
Did I change who I am,
for A world i saw to be A sham,
attempting to form A personality,
Ill try them on to see what fits me.

Not afraid to be on my own
yet again, not all alone.
To see the great in everyone
until reminded that Im wrong.
If everything is all black and white,
Right or wrong,
where do I look too belong,
My solitary single handed fight,
To search for release of this plight.

Desire
further befuddles
an already
addled mind.

She stands on
the tippy top of
a grand canyon
miles above
looking down
to a ground
where I plant
my heart
hoping to dance
and be a part
of the world’s art.

Her poetry floats
across the gaps
like an echo,
and I gasp
as I grasp
the meaning
of her repeating
syllables.

She leaves me
grieving gently
longing for
a connection,
not a lustful *******
sprinkled with
the touching
kind of affection,
but communication
and shared appreciation
of each other’s
poetic creations.

She does not see me,
retreating
from life’s beating
whilst beseeching,
then dying alone.