You have inspired me
To rip my eyes from my head.
My fingers pulled at the nerve
tendrils slowly ripping them from their bed.

There will be no screams, no,
I will be silent, for your kind has
Stolen my voice already and I
Have no hope of finding it again as

I cannot see.

this morning
       I picked up the pieces
                                of myself from the floor
                                where the shattered pieces
                      fell when I broke
down and scattered

                 they were
                                                                          all
                                                   about
the
                        place
                                                   I called home.

But
I reassembled myself
putting myself together
with ugly white, sticky glue.

Come! Come! Everyone!

I dance my dance and
fake a facade;
A sound plie
of self pity.

"Woe is me!" I say,
"Yes! Woe IS me!" I reply.
My aside explains it all:
"I'm the saddest man alive."

I wish my life was like a poem
then I would be beautiful.
I would have rhythm, cadence, imagery;
my rhymes they would be plentiful.

I would have stanzas of separation,
my life would be in order.
They would build upon each other
from beginning to end -- clear borders.

Someone would have infused emotion,
clear meaning to my words;
something mysteriously discernible
the lack of which does hurt.

Instead I'm just a jumble of
unnecessary words and phrases.
No clear anything at all,
No future meaning to the ages.

Creation of my Mind
I long, with heart, to know you fully.
Somewhere between the ego and id
You lope.

Cigarette smoke, blue-grey in
The breeze twirls like you do,
Gracefully bounding around
My fears.

The twisted narrative inside
My thought -- winding roots of
Dry untruths which you prune away
To heal.

You plant the seeds, the grasses of
Elysium, a paradise of
Vision and sweet Words
Within me.

I can but concentrate on
Only one thing at a time.
Frankly, however it has been
Occupied, recently, by
Singularly you.

Drowning in the dream of
what I hope to be.
Swimming in the swirling eddies of
the impossible truth.
I'm drowning fast as the foamy surf fills
my lungs and weighs them down
like sandbags.
Eyes open, it surrounds me and
traps me inside of itself.
Weights on my feet--
the blue fades to black.
It's the dream, not the nightmare, that
consumes