I'm writing this poem
At 10:24.

But in Guatamala

I'm writing this poem
At 8:25.

Time is relative.

It’s fresh I thought,
Too red to be old.
Someday it will fade,
soon maybe.
It will turn pink.
I try not to stare but,
it’s as if some invisible magnetic force
is pulling my eyes towards it.
Does he know I’m staring?
It makes me uncomfortable,
I slowly sit down.
look into my tea, at the wall behind him
look at my hands.
“how was your day?” he asks.
He has no idea I see it.
I start to shake.
I know what he did,
what he’s been doing.
How do I ask?
Do we get help now?
It’s not healthy I think,
to just ignore the problem.
“It was fine.” I say
The lipstick perched on his collar.
The same way his hands were perched on her *******,
Maybe only an hour ago.
All I see is red.
Someday it will fade,
a mere smudge.
Nobody else will see it,
But I know, like a scar,
the mark will always remain.

Pppzzzzzzzzz
The pan pops and sizzles
As I open the creaky wooden door.

Shhhhhhh
The kitchen sink sings,
He washes a pepper covered cutting board.

The sounds never change,
The routine is always the same.

I count on,
"How was your day?"
And "what do you want to drink."

Dependability, stability.
One thing know at the end of the day.


The plates clink as they touch the table.
"Lets eat."

Unsure
Dangling upside down, held up by only trust
I am suspended over a bridge,
One of which I am afraid to cross,
afraid to think about,
afraid to imagine.
But you hold me there
suspended
laughing
I don’t know why I let you torture me
I know I’m going to fall
hard and fast
painfully
but it’s happening and I feel as if I have no control
I let it happen
and then you’re gone
years later I can’t forget
that bridge,
that night
that mistake and the long recovery.

but that’s the funny thing,
Hamlet could've killed the king.
You could have killed me,
Released your grip, sent me down.
Rushing, flying,crashing, crying
Your name on my breathless lips.

But...

You didn't. You held me,
Up.
Alive.

Still suspended, but no longer unsure,
We've met dangling above the water
On a bridge.

Your Ophelia, safe from drowning.
Safety assured.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse?
Full dedication, my vindication.
It purposefully maintained his great farce,
Masterfully lying, the persuasion.

He was always gorged full of his own ****.
I was willful and weak and victimized.
Beautiful deceiving eyes, I admit,
I was full of love, by him, mesmerized.

I became fully his, ****** into life
with a perjurer, oh he was skilful!
My heart was full with love, my head, strife.
The endless lies would stop, I was hopeful.

  But hopefulness can become helplessness
  with hearts, things become frightfully hellish.

I used to stare at the moon
In wonder.

The size of a pencil eraser
And bigger than my head,
All at once.

It was magical.

Now I stare at the moon
With hatered.

Another day wasted,
Another 24 hours spent,
Another miserable night.

My possibilities are limited,
Weigheted down by finance
Shrunk by stress.

I am smaller than a pencil eraser
To the big, gigantic, moon.

The ****** sun rises
To meet the green
boys preparing.

I watch the day divide.

Alas, if my story end here
Let it be one of courage
Not rage
Let it be of a human
Not a boy

Let my name be lost among the fallen
My soul forsaken among the ******
Let my story wrap its arms
around my brothers.
Let my death be life for them.

O! The gift I wish to give.
The sacrifice I face for them.
If my story end here
Let theirs live on.

What of those who place themselves in others?
Why, death.

The fool who trusts a stranger
Who can not see the buds
Of a flowering enemy
Revealed to be mine own self
Death awaits.

They've stolen, taken myself
By force, by sweet poison words
****** my life's marrow
Death comes to me

A friend,
That mortal sheet to lift
And I will emerge
Anew.

The doer
Is merely a fiction
Added
To the deed.

Some construct of morality
And self prescribed validity
Justifies the doer manipulates the language
Clarifies the plot

The deed.

The empty space between
Existence


And thought.

What is matter matters
And what matters do we find
Plausible?

Wing tipped tongues
Utter madness as their wings fly away.
It's art. Like a trash bag floating down an empty street.
Empty words float and circulate the masses.

Consumables.
We eat media, satisfied by garbage.
Wiping the latest episode of Tiger King off our chins,
We chomp on clickbait desserts.

The writers, thinkers, and philosophizers
starve.

Searching for anything with substance
they revisit old watering holes.
The marrow has been ****** from literature,
The cave is too real to re-enter,

But there is a rumble from within.

Weak but present.
The uprising is upon us!
Writers, Thinkers, and Philosophizers, rise!

Rise and pluck the birds from the sky,
steal their wings and soar.
Soar across time and spread the wisdom that has been bestowed upon you.

Orange face, war paint,
The White House wrapped in caution tape.
Right to ****, lives at stake,
I wonder when we'll get a break?

Sickness prevails,
the devil's in the details.
Bees are dying, nations crying,
Natural disaster underlying.

Wear a mask,
It's not a task.
Save yourself and stay at home,
Frontline heroes are not alone.

Look to the sky, look to the sea,
this fresh hell is reality.