My hands are dyed.
Dyed as in permanent
Until death do us part.
But I died my hands.
Died as in permanent,
Until death do us part.
Dead,
Dyed,
Died,
Dye,
Die.

Makes everything sticky,
It leaves trails of the sap
Stolen from the trees,
With no remorse.
Syrup leaves a trail,
Bread crumbs,
Clues to the puzzle.
Did I eat waffles or pancakes?

Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Why do we wash bath towels?
Aren't we clean when we use them?
How do I respond to your silence?
Why do you hate yourself?
Does this really matter?

Is what we seemed to have
Labeled as
Truth.
Lies are fiction.
Or so we say.
Fiction is what we make up and
What we make up isn't real.
Or so we think.
Non fiction is the boring facts
About someone's life,
All stretched out on a line
Going twice around the world
Before it gets back to us.
But what if fiction is just as much
Truth
As non fiction?
What if we aren't making facts up
But only embellishing
On the inner, whispered facts of
Ourselves,
The inner battle we hold,
And it comes out
Fiction

I'm writing again
I'm breathing again
After weeks and weeks of holding
My breath
And it feels so good

I am a foreigner
A stranger,
Unimportant,
I am nothing but the green screen
Background to your
Ocean.
I blend in
Like paint being rolled,
Like the foundation
You rub on your face,
To hide the blemishes you think you have
I am a stranger,
Setting off the red alert
Alarms,
Though I am no more a threat
Than ice cream.
Think nothing of me,
But silently accept my presence
As ordinary to your world,
As if I'm nothing but a tree in it.

It might just be the butterflies
In my stomach
Or the ants
In my pants.
Or the beads of sweat,
Glistening like pearls
On my skin,
Or may just be me.
I'm walking out alone
David facing the Goliath of
My nightmares,
Tall and dark
And I'm nervous.
What if everything goes wrong?
Does anyone ever wonder:
What if everything goes right?