Panic,
placed on the splintered edge of a dreaming mind,
I spit and sputtered, like the dying wings of
a dragonfly on a cold cappuccino morning.

She called me in the dark moody blue hue of early morning
as if to steal the broken moon from the attic in  my chest.
So early I could hear the creak of spider legs
inching for a place of warmth.

Still in dream logic,  she was crying so quietly
Melted spoons for a brain, I could only hear
the groans and pains of
the pet spiders on my ceiling,
their  so cute and pissy in the morning.

She muffled "I need help"
I snapped awake as if a reflex to fight a charging train wreck.
This time advice came direct from my dream landscape the truth served dark black
and without the vanilla flavor.
I focus and get in gear "Hey girlie I am here, whats going on?"
An  hour goes by a like a cat sneeze on a stormy day.


Again she laughs if I could see her, her smile would be wide tired and tear stained.
I laugh  with her, while aching at the corner of my eyes " well hey try that tomorrow and if it doesn't work we can brainstorm to try something else. Call me tomorrow my sleepiness is welting  my consciousness, I am not much use now except maybe for some mad hatter talk." A pause  she sighs as if pushing of sleep. I wanted just one more smile to be sure" Stand strong if you can survive this hit the sky will clear for you. We'll strangle the rainmaker if we have to"

parting jokes and the call the ends, my moon back in my chest
content spiders basking  in rays of light I can almost hear the hum of the morning sun.

I smile fading with the ceiling tucking me in, I can see her curled up with her stuffed animals half crying half terrified she falls to sleep drooling on her long time best friend
Mr finkers.

and
Finally the purr of happy spiders lulls be back to sleep.

Swinging higher rising from green to a cloudy sky.
She would give up her feet in exchange for flight.
The day closes up shop, the doors locked, she finger paints
rain clouds in the windows, the light of midnight traffic slipping
by glimpses of golden and marmalade light.  In a slow blink she sips
black masala tea with cream and sugar with a flicker of  melancholy she imagines
the milky light polluted sky and the few stars stubbornly shimmering.

The palms of her hands burning  the back of her eyes sweating
strained visions of flowering deserts of hungry sunflowers and parched succulents
she feels the edges of depression creep around her waiting for the last sigh of joy.

Weaken by the breeze
he settles  like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets  as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.

The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real

the steep hills mimic  the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.

He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of  wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual  still echo faintly, as his ears burn.

The pain makes the day real.
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real

Weaken by the breeze
he settles  like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets  as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.

The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real

the steep hills mimic  the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.

He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of  wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual  still echo faintly, as his ears burn.

The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real

The lost cry of a male butterfly..

Why? why wont i let me sleep?
why dream of your own demise,
not death, no but the worse possibly loss.
The loss of a dream of love and a long fought for cause.
Why feel hurt not there not real? for what purpose?
This fear is not even real fear this terror only a shadow of the real horror.
I have truly been hurt and have felt loss, deep seated betrayal.

why so dramatic?

why imagine it when its not even there
a culmination of  my  entire life's sum of pain and terror.
why as if it walks through as a aloof ghost wandering the
endless  halls of  overly reflective mirrors.

Is this my ego? over compensating for the lack of constant pain
something i was so used too an button mashed and jammed in.

a slight haze of mild depression.

my ego almost hungry for a reason to hurt
as if   hurt was a natural normal state
and neutral  happiness abnormal.

shut up ego this is not  a soap opera.

I have come this far I have  fought this hard to attain
everyday happiness and  an occasional bad day with my  one person
to not   halfheartedly   later drown my self in a miasma of  imagined
scenarios of anguish loss, agony and terror.

Shut up ego  i dont need to relive the million  probabilities and possibilities
that my life could have gone or might go.

be here now. look around. the demons are gone, wendy isnt here.
and he is still here so am I and no one is  changing that.



go back to sleep.

A Beautiful fleshed Moment?
    The epiphany of simple skin!
      It's the moment you realize,
its farther than your eyes can see.
And its closer, more intimate than your own body.

This Beautiful Fleshed Moment!
The epiphany of simply skin:
that one's own beauty can not be found
in the reflection of a mirror,
but in beloved eyes,
eyes of your beloved yourself
loved by the lives who cherish,
the only you...

Sometimes, when I push you away,
I need you to pull me closer,
to know its okay, to know the weight of myself wont break you.
To prove the fear wrong that you wont break under me or against me
to prove the cynicism wrong that you wont hurt me
and that my pain wont hurt you.
Sometimes I need you to pull me closer
so I know how to hold you and how much i can lean on you.'

If you push me away I'll keep my distance,
and knock on your door waiting
for you to welcome me in and from time to time
I'll peer in your windows
and wish I could help your tears,
your pains but remind myself its none of my business,
until you share with me. I promise if you tell me to go away again
I'll leave and solicit nothing more,
but your welcome to come knocking on my door.

She  sets her mouth on a swollen world
asking mother, father, friend  and foe
where did  her life  ever go?

No one could tell her.

But back when nothing was really everything  in
an empty coloring book and old slippers.

She sets her mouth on the deepest of yearns
asking "with these hands why must I be destined
to create and destroy all that I have"

She sets her mouth on a swollen world
with her living purpose  in every breaking why.

The ceiling is talking to me and its getting personal.
And  I'm not  sure if  I wanna get this close to something
that's above me and holding me in.

Tomorrow has already gone by,
but  I am not quite there yet,
when yesterday is still fogging up the clock,
I wonder why I am somewhere in the middle of a place
I can't seem to wash off.

The ceiling's crying now,
I can't seem to get anything straight
something  about the  chipped paint and where I punched a hole in the wall
and the words I stapled with the glow in dark stars  above my head.
I can't remember where I put my feet and why I can't see the stars.