I’m sorry were having a fight
when things bother me I go quiet
I build things up inside,
they maybe small -
but because there held in so long they sit
and turn my insides into a festering pit
the smallest slight can then become a raging tornado
an uncontrollable reaction
that doesn’t fit the supposed crime
and -
even though I know all this
at the moment I’m still mad
a major disagreement because
of all the little tiffs we never had

I think this kettle has had a good brewing
in my intestinal wall it’s been stewing
and now it’s come to the boil
I’ll have to handle things better
talk -
about the niggling stuff
or I’ll never handle a real patch of rough

I’m writing instead of talking to you
digging my heels in, not answering your call
refusing to scale this wall
this wall that I’ve built
maybe if I give it a little tilt
an inch more -
I can’t scale it yet
it’s looming to large on my horizon
I’m not ready to tear it down yet

I’m sorry *** I’m trying
but -
its taken years to build this wall and now its
oh -
so tall
maybe it will mature and stoop
fade into the background
stop tying me in a loop

But not today
I’m sorry

Walls.
We all have them,
We all ***** them,
And they all come tumbling down.

Walls,
Are built of love.
Walls,
Are built of pain.
Walls,
They are built to protect us.

Walls,
They keep me
From reaching you,
Hidden behind the other side.

Walls!
How I wish
That yours would topple,
So I can reach you.

Walls!
Between us
Walls!
Around us
Walls!
They are killing me.

A series of events
Once broke me

Deep inside. 

And I began to look into mirrors

Because I saw myself whole

Because I wanted answers

As if I could look into my own eyes

And see my soul.

My heart.

My mind.

But mirrors are cold.

And see only the surface.



And then again after him, 

I looked into mirrors. 

I wanted to know 

What was so wrong with me 

(Besides the obvious)

That he could lose interest 

So very quickly.

I suppose I thought 

If I looked hard enough

I’d find the answers 

And then at least I’d know 

And I could move on.

But mirrors are cold

And see only the surface.



And now there is you. 

And once again

I find myself looking into mirrors.

And I try to see what you do

Somewhere in the mess
That I always see.

I try to find what it is
That makes someone
As perfect as you

Want to be close
To a mess like me.

And I can’t.

Because mirrors are cold

And only see the surface.

I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.

All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.

I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.

There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.

Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.

Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.

Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place

(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)