what happened
or what's going on
or why he did what he did.

the way she's feeling
the way they're all feeling,
what I'm feeling.
So complicated.

when I cried
and you didn't.
while I slept,
and you couldn't.

why it happened there
and happened then.
What I can't do
and what I can.

why the world is this way now.
why my thoughts have shifted.
why it couldn't be different.


Why?

I don't know.

The snow crunches rhythmically
as I thump the ground.

Over
and over
and over
they pound.

I run the streets in a sharp, cold air,
and oh how I've missed the running sound.

My blank eyes stare
In bold frustration
At the white sheet
Sitting, calmly mocking me
On the plain brown table

The pen quivers in hand
My mussels shake with shame
But try as I might
My ideas are insanely sane

No bursting fits of passion
Or inspiring metaphors
Only a page covered in splatters
From my ink of internal wars

A block of metal in my mind
A chain of iron on my hand
Glossy mirrors on my eyes
Spiking needles in my thighs

Calling for me to get up
To leave this terrible attempt
But when a poets mind is blank
Like mine
About blankness will they find a rhyme

A single step
can be safer than the next
or the last.

The snow covers
a delicate layer of ice.
From a far,
no one would know
what lies beneath.
Just a quiet, white field,
of freshly fallen snow.

I like the way
the ice crackles
right under my boots
just before it breaks.

At that time,
the thrill is harmless.
Merely those small,
spider web cracks.
Intruding in it's
perfect crystal floor.

But as soon as that ice
folds from under me,
I am surrounded by
a world of water
and its heavy.
Dragging me down,
to cold to handle.

Why do I chose
to walk on the ice?