I have thirty.

Thirty ways to tell you who I am.
Ways that I didn't know I was.
To be who I never thought I'd be.
Tell me I was a better person then.
You don't even notice me.
Who are you?
I am me.
And now I have thirty one.

Superimposing marks
On red, swollen lips
Bit and bled from chattering teeth
That tolls nervous as a cuckoo clock chirps.

A bumpy road with
Spidered cracks
Like a well dried jerky strip
Wrinkled, and tough.
Bit and chewed
With no bones underneath
And no guts to go forward.

Warning skies
Of red in the morning.
And thunderstorming nights
That flash with lighting so intense
You'd think an old-age photo party was commenced way up high.
And rain so furious
You'd think the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces.*
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As a cloud,
I think I should add
That we aren't all fluffy and white
Nor scary and dark.

Our seasons do not come easily
For we undergo much
To make it "rain."

And even more to keep it calm.

Thunder is not a weathering crash,
It is yelling from another room.
And the lightning flash,
rage,
That leads to liquid pain.

The hard pressed wind that tosses your hair
Are witheld screams
until tolerance level reaches maximum,
And snaps. Like that old willow's trunk,
Wrenched from the earth,
Because the sky is powerful
And we are only along for the ride.

But, there is sunshine that warms our tops
While the bottoms are in shadow,
wrought in darkness that writhe along uneven surfaces.
But, there is moonlight that makes us gleam,
Like silver was sewn into sides.
But she is not always there,
And as her light fades
So
Do
We.

Timothy the poet,
With words that speak professionalism
That I envy
His diverse
His sense
The words that flow from him
And the happiness that seems to spring off the page
And force itself down my throat
Until a smile cracks my lips
And my teeth show white
Because Timothy
Your poetry brings me joy.

Her breast of broaden chest
uncovered slight
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.

And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
and clench
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.

Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.

Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.

Decapitated
as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
and always,
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.

And she
unfortunately
Won.

Less and less
as addiction breaks
and connections appear
like sidewalk cracks
that allow grass
and weeds to wander up and through
to grow
like dandelions.

Providing little spikes of sunshine out of a darkened place
and floating messages once they die;
carried along by the wind
and breaths of the wishing hopefuls.

Soaring across the sky
like clouds blown by wind
and drafts entering windows
that blow curtains fro
and to lift hair back and breeze in
(breathe in)
the scents of summer.

Disappointment.
Be ready for it.
Ready or not, here it comes.
Like hide and seek.
Telling you to expect the unexpected.
Even if the unexpected is hiding up in a tree.
When the rules clearly defined only "on the ground hiding spots."
Ready to drop in on you.
On top of you.
And crush you to the ground.
Catch me if you can.
If you are ready.

I am a pretender.

Looking through a window that is slightly open,
so that a breeze winds in
with gathered memories
of subliminal pain.

And I'm lost
partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand.
With the sun no longer reflecting,
refraction.
A reddening burn
and a quickened pulse
aching *****
and held breath.
I know where I am.

I am a fake.
But I cannot go through with it.
If I do not in the "real,"
why lie online?
Why hide myself
and view myself
criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine,
not even who I want to be?

Why do I ignore myself,
and let fade into lingo.

Because I am human
and I don't want you to know me.
Even when I want you to feel,
I want you to share this moment with me.
And that is why
I post these
discombobulating pieces of no reckoning,
non-entertaing, ultimate **** "poems."
Because I want you to understand this
                                                                        me
in this instant.