Every Monday morning,
My teacher repeats the same command.
"Look alive" she says,
Even though, I already feel dead.
Along with all the other days of the week too.
And add to that list,
The past few weeks,
And since you've been gone,
Go ahead and add the past year too.

I feel alive because of the complete deadness that overwhelms.

I see you in the dust particles
waltzing in late afternoon sunbeams
I see you in endless train tracks
curving out of sight and into
uncharted territory inside your chest.
I'm sorry I didn't know how to loosen
my dead bolt grip, you were your own world
and I selfishly believed
I could grasp your full potential in my tiny fingers.
I assumed you were linear,
two dimensional;
one chapter rather than
an entire library of life.
I know you wanted me to speak up,
unhinge my jaw and let
the unwritten poems of my mind
seep into your ears.
I didn't think telephone wires stretched
across so many miles just for dead air.
I didn't think you were
listening so hard with your eyes.
I've been shaking my head,
trying to find a solution
rattling around in some stray cranial nerves.
Maybe that's why they call it shock
when it's not electricity at all.
We went from caves and brutality
to covered patios and toxic taser tongues
ready to etch high voltage vocabulary
into my bones until that's all I have left.
You wanted a better fight
but you shorted my circuit.
I let go all at once and I couldn't turn away
when you stumbled and crashed into a new reality.
I still have trouble laughing
around the lump in my throat
when people joke about trees falling in forests
because the way you said my name
still has me by the throat and some days
I think your grip is what kept my feet on solid ground

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog tonight

counting blossoms
can't smell them, not through the cold
few hundred on this tree
few more at my feet
tragic
last thing we need
is for spring to die young

The crimson fire licks the night air
It flickers and whips out in excitement
Spitting out crackles of flame
Cradled in its fiery embrace is her
Engulfed in a pool of bloodshot blaze
It captivates my gaze as I watch intently
A picture of the girl burns violently
It fades into a black scar
Yet the memory will never burn

The door that someone opened
The door that someone closed
The chair on which someone sat down
The cat that someone petted
The fruit that someone bit into
The letter that someone read
The chair that someone tipped over
The door that someone opened
The road where someone is still running
The woods that someone crossed running
The river in which someone jumped
The hospital where someone died.

Burnt out stump left to die
In the forest I stand alone
If I had a voice I would cry
If I felt pain I would groan
Yet I am just a tree to you
You cut me down for your view