Yeah they're my family,
Sometimes I'm embarrassed
Sometimes I'm proud.
I'm stuck for five days straight
With the lot of them.
And part of me
Wants out.
Free yourself
Release
Run away.
And part of me says
Yeah they're my family.
Stick with 'em.
And I stay in the car,
Sitting and thinking.
About myself.
My life without my family.
After college, after getting a real job
And starting my own family,
So my own daughter will think
Yeah they're my family.

Faces,
Square
Rough
Marble. Their eyes empty and gray,
Lacking life,
They're dead.
Faces
Chiseled into stone.
One then another
Four in a row
W, J, R, L
Four names in a list.
Yet not in chronological order.
None smile
Yet we smile at them,
Who are they?

He has no home
But pulls
His head into
His head
And Holmes comes home
He smokes a pipe
He does not type
And Holmes comes home
He befriends a doctor
Considers every factor
And Holmes comes home
A genius
Almost a superman
But yet explainable
I understood

I can't believe how heavy words are
They drip like wax into my soul.
They swirl and swirl
Until the thick mixture has the texture
Of brownie mix.
Words pile on me.
I feel their weight upon my back.
Cute
Fat
Ugly
Unique
Apocraphayl.
They crush me.
They are heavy.
Words are heavy.

Is electricity
In my tongue.
I can hear the
Zap! Zap! As i
Taste nothing but it's cold
Calm
Cool
Collected
Flavor.
And I remember,
Edison didn't come up with this
Tesla didn't either.
But instead it came up in its
Own
Poking up out f the dirt.
And no one realized it was
Electric.
I take another sip and I remember
Peppermint is my favorite
And I crinkle my nose
In a good way
And my face breaks out into a smile

What is life?
A glimpse of the present?
A present of the past,
A past of the future?
An eclipse of humanity?
A picture worth 1,000 words?
The craving of mankind
Easy to lose, hard to gain.
Once upon a time Life was beautiful.
Long futures cascaded down its back
And pasta graced its aura.
But then mankind abused it.
Beat up, battered down.
People took it and destroyed it.
It screamed out to God.
He took Life and made it everlasting.
Life shined brighter than the stars.
And it still does if you look hard enough.

Rain can be heard anywhere
Not just on a tin roof.
I hear it on the car top as
I curl up
Drivers seat
Writing this poem.
I heard the rain in my
Brain.
White noise
Background din.
Rain was once appreciated.
But I've blended it into the background
Like a chalk painting,
Wiping it again and again
Until it's nothing but
White noise din.
Rain rain come and stay.
Don't ever go away.
I want to hear you.

You say what I read is
****
You say I need to get
The best education I should have.
Thank you auntie the great
And terrible.
I hate your efforts,
But I know you're trying to help me
To get farther.
Than I can reach on my own.
Thank you auntie
My great but terrible
Auntie.

Yeah you said you
Couldn't make it,
But a tiny sliver of hope in my heart
Festered itself down in the cardiac
Muscle and I thought
For one second,
You might open the door with a
Dramatic
Whoosh
And walk right in.
And is stop performing
Just so you could take a seat,
Then is continue.
But you missed it.
You weren't there.
And the sliver shattered into a tiny
Splinters that I now have to pick
Out with some tweezers
Because you weren't there.
You didn't hear the words I sang to the
Crowd
The tune I played to the audience,
That I dedicated to you.
Nope,
You weren't there.

Cut this
Keep that.
This is clutter.
This so good.
reword this.
I felt you here.
This is awkward
This is powerful.
I'm being pulled in a tug of war between good and bad.
And sometimes I want to give up.
But I can't.
My piece must be as beautiful
As blown glass.
And even if I die getting there.
It will work.

Some days it want to crawl in a
Corner and die
Of crying too much.
Some days I want to think
That the world does not exist around
Me
And that my heartbeat is
My heartbeat that beats
Like a free eagle in the sky.
Alone.
Some days I want to listen to my own thoughts
And say nothing to no one
Because I'm listening to my head
Phones and not saying nothing
To no one.
And I'm alone
In isolation.
Some days
I want to be alone,
Listening to myself
And wondering if the world
Exists.

I thought you were taken,
As one of the only paintings in
My house.
I should not be the one to take you,
Even though you are very nice and
Friendly to me.
I'm going back to the museum
And I wanted to know if you
Wanted to come again.
I'll make interesting comments
About life and art like last time,
And stomp my feet when I see
The parking garage next to the garden
Of Rodin's statues.
Yes, I'm going back to the museum
Because I need to write,
And I need to be inspired.
So mr. Painting, would you like to come?
I don't want to just stare at you on the wall you're hanging on.
I'm not in the museum yet.
But as an artist I see art all around me,
So maybe I really am
In a museum.
But you're not an exhibit,
Not you're a person,
A friend,
My friend.
An artist.

I see their eyes,
Wide open
Months as open as tea trays.
Fish, lots and lots of fish.
Sharks, rays, tuna, jellyfish, octopus.
All in different tanks,
Sleeping, eating, swimming.
But what if we are nothing but just
Another school of fish,
More advanced
Sleeping, eating, swimming.
Different types of people:
Tall, short, thin, fat, extrovert, introvert,
So really fish are watching fish.
Where is the sense in that?

I got scorched by the sun.
It raked it's teeth on me instead
Of gently pecking my cheek.
I hurt for a while,
Licking my wounds,
Not literally of course,
And now my hurt is healing.
And perhaps mr. Sun will give me another chance.

I'll show them,
Telling me I can't use grammar
Correctly,
Or even spelling it for that matter.
I don't know how I feel about him.
We saw Rodin
And he picked me up and carried me
Until I begged him to let me
Go.
He has a girlfriend
I'm not her, besides, he swears
I don't.
I just can spell grammar.
But I can't use it.
What's a girl to do?

Sometimes I go to see paintings
Of people,or sometimes I go to see the
People watch the paintings.
Which is more artistic:
The thinker,
Or the furrowed eyebrows
Of the face thinking about the thinker?
There's more screaming inside
Our eyes than the scream itself
When we see it.
We heard the screaming in our heads
Painting is silent.
Sometimes I go to see the live people.
To see the moving exhibits.
To see what they think
Of art.

Sorrow is a tidal wave
Washing over those
Trying to frantically swim away.
Sorrow is the unexpected guest
At the dinner table,
Who isn't supposed to be there until
Never.
Sorrow is the rainstorm
That won't let up.
And sometimes you find yourself
Dancing in the rain.
Feeling the cold wet
Drops on your face,
And you realize
Sorrow is temporary.

I talk to dead people.
I see their faces upon the walls
I see their faces in my dreams.
I see their faces,
In the reflection of my own.
And I speak to the deceased tongue
That hasn't wagged in ages.
Hello corpse.

I rarely shouldn't eat.
I'm not hungry.
But I need to save my strength,
For darker days ahead.
So I sacrifice the fullness,
Of my occupied stomach,
And build up my strength,
Or maybe just excess fat.

What do I shove in first?
My suitcase an empty canvas
A blank page,
Which I can fill with whatever I want
But also whatever I need.
I have to think about the future.
I have to assume I'll need
This and
This and
This.
And I will make it out alive
To buy my sister
This and
This and
This.

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?

I'm no longer a child
When my heart gets trampled on,
When it is crushed like
Coffee beans inside the grinder.
I'm no longer a child
When I fly alone,
My fate tied to a lifeless metal bird
To solemn to cry.
I'm no longer a child,
When I walk down the street alone,
A stranger in your neighborhood.
I'm still a child,
When Im homesick all the time,
When I cry for my mother
To hold my hand.
I'm still a child
When I'm scared of the dark,
When the comforter is more
Protection than comfort.
I'm still a child
Even though I'm no longer a child.

Is a dichotomy.
It's a mix between the literary
And the story.
The ratios of metaphors
To mind blowers.
Where is the balance?
Information
Then a quote
And back to information again
And I am nothing but the writer
The voice telling the story.
I am unimportant

I am born in the wrong century.
I do not want to use the
Lifeless objects
Of this day and age.
I want to go back in the past.
If I had a time machine,
This 21 century Jane Austen
Would go back to where
She belongs.
In England.
In 1803.
And live to see what happens after that.
Now it's all not fun. And games,
But there's an art
That's hidden
Beneath the tapestry of time
An art that
Is desiring and longing
For us to feel at home.
This is my longing.

It is morning,
The sun is awake
And mourning
Comes with the break of day,
As I wake up once more
To face the world
It's mourning
And I'm supposed to
Cry and be still,
But it's morning,
There are things in their own time
To come.

I wheeze
And my throat creaks
Like an old door
That needs oil.
I gasp,
Like a fish out of water,
And I cough
Like an old man with a pipe in
His hands, about to
Meet death face to face.

I am angry
Mad
Seething
Grinding my teeth,
Clenching my fists
I AM ANGRY!
I think I will not matter in this world
This world will survive
Without me
I am nothing but a speck of dust
Under your feet.
Why do I matter?
I will become a nobody
I am a nobody
And I cry and cry
But the world offers no comfort.
I am angry
I am mad at myself
I am stupid and fat and ugly
And I matter to no one

Enter the world of color
Of competition
And danger.
Where all things seem possible and
Nothing is unexpected
Where enemies
Are tricky
Cunning and  just plain stupid
Fat and lazy.
Where an Italian man
With a moustache
And wearing red
Screams
"Let-se-go!"

Yes that is the world I
Am speaking of.
The world of the wishful,
Dreaming they could live in it forever

"She leaves at about two o'clock"
" whoops sorry"
"You think it's five?"
"You'll come home early?"
"I've got the info on my computer"
"I like paper"
"Slipped out somewhere"
"We could go at one forty"
"Cool"
"They pick up the trash as they walk along"
"Very much a servant"
"It is not up to me"
"I didn't ask that"
"Sometimes"
"You just have to make it yummy"
"No all the time"
"Yeah"
"I do try to limit myself, it hurts your teeth"
"I eat a lot of it"
"You would use it out at the graves"
"So she could eat that too"
"We won't drink it all"
"We need to stop by Sam's to pick up my cooler"
"That's the idea"
"They won't go out to dinner with us"
"I'd be happy to"
"There's an Applebee's there?"
"We should call and make a reservation"
"He's got a special place in his heart for Applebee's"
"I'm happy to take him."
The car ride
And I'm writing poetry
When they are the poets

I wrote this poem while I was asleep
About swimming birds,
And Cheshire cats,
Purple trees,
And broken hearts.
I wrote this poem while I was asleep,
My head hurts
My eyes are as heavy as
Stones
And I cannot
And I so not want to move.
I breathe
Silently,
And I wrote this poem
While I was asleep.

I'm sorry,
But no,
I never liked you.
You may accuse me,
You seem to have every right,
I've dragged you along like
A fish on a line,
I've caught you like a fly in a web
And no fool,
I'm sorry but no,
I never liked you.
You may have thought so,
With my bewitching gaze,
Those deep puddles of blue
Like sapphires,
You seem lost.
I'm sorry but no,
I'm not returning your gaze,
And starring fondly in your eyes,
I'm staring into your soul,
And I don't like what i see.
So I'm sorry but no,
I never liked you.

And there's been a funeral,
I've cried,
Shed a tear,
Hugged my grandma
And put a smile on my face.
It's Sunday
And it's Father's Day.
And I've cried
Hugged my father figure
And prayed for my grandma
It's Sunday.
Church choir sang
And I've cried.
Because it's Sunday.

Ever wanted to stand in the spot light?
To have your name praised,
To be known
And have your face recognized?
Ever wanted to ride on
Angels wings
And stand on the shoulders
Of giants
And see you fellow humans
As ants.
That's glory for you.
Glory is a drink that goes down
Cool and crisp.
It has a pleasant after taste,
A bit bubbly, like champagne
But too much of it
Cannot be good for you.
So ride on those wings
As much as you can.
Because you don't know when the
Last swig will be.

Only one nostril works
Only one.
If I am lucky.
I can breathe.
My mouth turns dry like the
Dust on a two hundred year old piano,
My teeth, like the keys, are slowly yellowing.
I'm breathing like I'm opening
Only one eye,
I'm lopsided.
And why must I breathe at all?

Do I dare try to discover
What I even want?
My fingers
Run
Over clothes
Shoes
And other useless junk
When I die,
Who'll care what shoes I wore
How many shirts I owned,
What books I read?
The books may outlive me
The shirt outlive the torso
But in legacy,
They will not outlive me.

Today I am living in the past .
I see the same bullies with their smirks
Wiped across their faces,
I hear their same jeers at me.
I feel the same anger boiling inside of me.
I relive my embarrassing moments
Of pure stupidity.
I grow hot with embarrassment.
I'm sure my checks flushed.
I really should live in the present,
But I want to perfect my past
So hard
I'll never do it correctly.
Instead I'll be stuck there,
Never able to escape
My moments of vulnerability.

Part of me hates rejection.
Hates to be shunned into the
Dark corner
Of the world
Dimly lit, dank, dark
Crying.
Perhaps I'll end up being the
Stereotypical old lady
With too many cats
I could bear to give them up.

Both communicate
My feelings for you.
I could dance forever in your arms
Like a twirling ballerina
In a music box
But if rather talk.
And dance
At the same time.
Hang into my words like
Your life hangs on by a thread
You're not dead,
Don't be led
Away from me.
Live within my words
And dance within my dreams
And I will breathe your words
Back to you

Your wit
Is like the wick of a stick of dynamite
Quick, sharp, explosive
You laugh and I laugh with you.
Such terrible creatures,
Mr. Collins, lizzy Bennet.
All figures of your brain.
Stay with me Jane.
I need your help.
I need your advice, your wisdom
Of such things,
Dangerous things,
As love.
Do not hide from me.
But give me your passion.
Help me to save Ms. Smith
And be the Emma I knew I could be
And do not let poor be by herself
But be with her.
Write her a gentleman,
Write her true love
Write a new story.
For me

I lie on the bed,
Relaxed
But then the screech of the two metal
Arms wakes me up
And I feel the hot wax just above
My eyelid.
And I feel the heat on the sensitive skin
And I harden what muscles I can
When she tears off my hair.
That I will never get back

You there,
Standing there
Between flesh and air
You don't share
The same cares
As I do.
You're nothing but a ghost

You grin
Stretching your chin
To try to see me wince
And convince
Me you're real.
You're nothing but a ghost.

You moan
Hoping I'll groan
And run home
And try not to be alone
With only you
Your nothing but a ghost.

You reach for me
Hoping I'll see
Your transparent fingers squeeze
And I'll freeze
Because I'm too scared to move
You're nothing but a ghost

You wail
Your voice like a gale
And I turn pale
Hoping my heart doesn't fail
Because I think you're nothing but a
Ghost
Yet you have been haunting night after night.
You have been in my darkest nightmares,
Cackling like a witch.
But you never say anything.
Because your my ghost
And I never said anything either.
Except for telling myself
I'm nothing but a shadow of time
That has passed
And I will become a ghost that doesn't last.
Forever

I shudder,
My face is drenched in tears and snot
And I quiver
Keep it together keep it together.
I cry to God to come upon my soul.
Save me
Keep it together. Keep it together.
My eyes fill with tears
Puffy eyes,
Save me
Keep it together, keep it together.
I wipe my nose .
I need a tissue
Puffy eyes
Save me
Keep it together, keep it together.
And I feel myself being held like a small child again.
Hold me
I need a tissue
Puffy eyes
Save me
Keep it together, keep it together.
And I cry
Hard

I'm in a fog and I can't tell
Which way is true north
Not to mention where trees and hills and rocks are
Nor people either.
I'm in a fog and I couldn't tell you
Why there are voices in my head
And where they come from.
I'm in a fog and
I hear thunder and lightning
Edison and Tesla are at war with each other in the sky
And I'm in a fog
Just listening
And groveling like a coward
Hoping not to be hit

I sent them an email,
Old fashioned I know.
One week ago.
And they never replied.

I sent a text just this morning
Simple and short
Maybe another tomorrow
And they never replied.

I am not thin air nor thick.
I am a person and even
Common courtesy calls for response
But yet they never reply.

I hope I am not alone in my thoughts.
As the days drift by
And I start to doubt
If they will ever reply.