Frequently,
I watch people
who try
consciously
or
unconsciously
to become
copies
of others.

They pursue
the same goals,
settle in
the same
lifestyle,
and
measure themselves
with the same ruler,
never realizing
they are so much more
than the cog
they behave like.

If we are really
going deep
into ourselves
we must
chip away
the unessential
distractions
to find the truth.

But I do not
pursue this
as much
as I want to
because
my distractions
are so nice.

These are strange messages,
in a sweet and deep
conversation;

Thoughts I speak
from fingertips
to myself,
and maybe
someone else,
as I dance
in and out of
other peoples
perspective,

aware that I
cannot connect
a hundred percent
to them
but I can get closer
then most others
ever get.

This comes from
a lifetime
of listening
and reading.

I find wonder in the warmth
of human connections.
They lessen
the coldness
of this
dark reality.

Which is why
it helps me
to see
strangers
happy in love
no matter what
their orientation
may be.

She wears
a pink dress
with a pink
flowered crown,
as pink leaves
flutter
and fall
to the ground.

They were
crimson
arterial
kisses,
blown in
razor sharp wind;
loving me to death
as I was frozen.

As an artist
I forgot
how to
draw the
feminine
form,
but
I used
the women
at the gym
to inform
and refresh
my amateur
artistry.

I can no longer be
the in-between,
watch you play
out the same sad scene,

watch you walk away
and come back
the same day
with a bruised heart
and a marked face,

feel you rest
your tired head
against my chest
as you express
affection for
a violent *****,

then talk to you
while you are
texting him,

or listen as you justify
your own abuse.

I feel guilty because
I want to walk away,
move on from the insane
vein of pain
you spray my way,
as you say
that I wouldn’t understand,

but I have felt
an abuser’s hands.

I do not presume
to mansplain
the layers of
your pain,
so please do not presume
that I do not understand
as much as any other human possibly can.