Inside every artists's head is a ******
A dose of genius with a dash of madness
But before we get trapped in a Wonderland of horrors
We must destroy the throne erected in ourselves

The artist should rest in reason
Like gazing peacefully at a meadow
The artist should move in passion
Like a lightning storm where heavy winds blow

Artists should always be observant, like the nocturnal owl
Who absorbs daylight like the sun is its opposite lover
Moon will guide you to creation, like winged wisdom hunts its foul
(Even if you feel that night provides no cover)

Artists should smell of the earth
In all its sweet fragrances and pungent odors
There are some people in this world who won't judge you
They are the mountains, hills, plains and oceans

Inside every artists's heart is a labyrinth
A dash of true nature and a dose of reality
No wonder some of us create art in the dark
(True artists don't seek fame; they yearn to be free)

What oozes out
                             (between the lines)
the scent of shaving,
your lean leg,
those dancing eyes,
waffles.

What can't escape
                                (the boldface type)
the door that slams,
your heavy feet,
dark eyes demanding
waffles.

What remains
                          (the words that blur)
a broken dish
your cracking wit,
my steady hand, now
waffles.

She grew tired of her thoughts
and the weaknesses they had found,
So she flicked her embered cigarette;
and burnt them to the ground.

you will write yourself empty
with talk of sieve hands and sifting hearts
and you will write yourself selfish
before anyone teaches you the definition of the word.

poetry is as good a punching bag as anything else
and you don't have to be lonely to come back here
but it's been months and I haven't been able to write anything worth reading that didn't begin with, "I."

here is my hand-me down hymn,
my rebel yell my soft and quiet
my church floor my vaulted ceilings
my elegy my aubade my fear--

I send quarter notes stumbling
when I'm not careful.

there have been poems I wish I could write:
my mom's hands like cracked mosaics,
my unforgiving, weak winter skin,
my sister's sharp wolf heart
my dad's icicle fingers melting
an entire four seasons spent
searching for words under rocks
the teeth of my fear shredding
the meat of this poem.

it has been a year,
and I don't worry anymore.

the quiet, craggy shape of my fear
will stretch itself out in the sun
when it's time.

until then,

tell them I'm home
tell the commas to come in
tell the exclamation points to vacate their tree
tell the question marks that now isn't the time for questioning--

tell the words I'm home.

In the heart of the cavern, light
that stands ancient behind time, beyond
phenomena, the observer of melodies;
This is where it all began,
those aeons lost when the mollusc
heeded the call to man.

Inward, stalked by worry and loss,
an inversion of the lines of time:
beyond the zero point of recollection,
where zoom microcosms of possibilities
a realm not realm, but like that
an existence beyond existence.

Here, arose an affliction, in
curled expanses that exist as some among
an infinitude of potentials,
worldlines, some dark and featureless,
others growing and meaningless
and some like here where sentient,

observatory, a shadow grows around
the probing ray of infant awareness.

and so the ascent, from light to light
through alleys of darkness. Vast,
the beginnings and interludes
between phantasmagoria; What
accedes of in slumber, the knowledge
of things and nothings.

And up even until the day when
the babe says 'mine'.

Its been a long time since
I had anything important to say.
Still don’t.
The focus that writing requires
is distant,
fog-like and out of reach.
I feel it misty on my skin sometimes.
I turn my hand around and its spirit
touches me softly, tenderly.
I feel it held up in silence.  
It is brief and then its gone,
or I go, or both,
and then the sun burns bright
and the clock runs fast
forward through the day
like an hourglass where
the ringing in my ears
is the roaring of the sand
through the gap,
and though it is contained,
it brings down with it everything
my mind cannot hold onto….
  
There is no focus.
Mainly guilt,
but I catch a glimpse  
once in a while in the mist,

and when the mist is on my skin
there is no roaring through the gap

rather drifting, slow,
methodical as intended…..

Just not very often

The sky is electric blue
And though it's getting lighter,
It feels like it's getting dimmer.

I can't remember what I said to you the last time we spoke,
But I remember the way your sky blue eyes contrasted my own
which were stained red with rage.
I had never seen you angry and I think that's why I hated you.
Because you were everything I wanted to be but couldn't.
I wanted you to despise me,
Because you were perfect and I was inconceivably flawed,
And the thought of something so pure admiring my tainted soul tasted like shards.
I wanted to crack your glass eyes,
Slit my wrists with the remnants,
Make you understand what happens when you give your heart to someone who doesn't want it.
and though I didn't want you I needed you.
And I know that's a cliche,
But that writer you made me love embraced his so why shouldn't I embrace
Ours?

The trees are black against the now pale sky,
Their silhouettes look the way the tiger stripes of your irises did,
The way your faded scars did against your olive branch skin .
And goddamit why did you have to ruin the sky too?
I'm sick of everything becoming yours
You told me to stop giving myself away to everyone but you just keep taking
Take.
Take it all. 
I don't want it without you.
The electrons in the clouds are sleeping again
They're too tired to keep shocking me with images of your now permanently closed eyes .
And I can't help but wonder if when they sealed your eyes shut
If you were relieved because you had grown tired of trying to light up my permanently dark sky.