To experience something through another's eyes.               
So different, yet the same,         
like McCartney and Lennon,               
like jam and jelly.                       
          
Different characters featured in paintings,                              
scrapbook
the cast in an artist's tv show.                                        
Some sitcoms, some dramas,
and others a genre of their own.                           
      
There’s Madonna’s and their babies,           
looking innocent as the bible.     
Why is it that baby Jesus         
in Renaissance paintings             
always gives me nightmares?                                          

The self portraits take their place
among the respected walls of color.
Their eyes draw you in,
burning holes in your skin.
They seem to appear wise.
Looking old as the moon,
but with significantly less bumps and crevices.

The modern pieces stick out,
like a lone spoon in the knife drawer.
They appear more youthful,
wrinkle-free and vibrantly alive.
“A child could have made this”,
I hear someone say.
What a beautiful thought to have.

She walks home from the ball, glass slipper in hand      
Underneath the stars,
the fairy-tale kind.       
Hair falls sloppily over her neck,                                      
and her dress turns back into tatters.                                  

She must pass through the forbidden forest,                    
the one that all women must travel.

As she enters, the handsome princes smile at her
before turning to dogs and howling.
They follow her from a distance,
but she still feels their hot breath on her
neck.

The trees come to life and taunt her,
laughing at her messy appearance
Until all their leaves fall to the earth,
and ***** at her curves and legs.

The bubbling stream forces her to view her reflection
in its cold and distorted mirror.
Then shows her beautiful queens
much prettier than her
Forcing her to make a comparison.

The princess makes it out,
though she hardly feels like one at all.
Scraping for some semblance of identity
She holds herself
in the harsh wind.

Colors so bright I swear I could smell them,
     a perfect kaleidoscope of hues.
Blinding me with excitement,
deafening me with their awe and beauty.

Roses curled up in a lovely kiss,
in shades of pink, white and red.
Tempting me with their ****** ambiguity,
waving like a stranger
in the wind.

Daisies giving me a friendly smile,
with their innocent, white petals.
Inviting me to sit and chat,
and perhaps share a cup of tea
to discuss our days over.

Lilies sprawling about,
with their elegant, flamingo pink flavor.
Drooping like a chandelier,
and revealing the secrets hidden within.

Tulips as purple as the plums
I picked from my grandmother's tree.
Mocking me with their vibrant personalities,
yet contained and uptight all the same

Their identities shine
through their wordless expressions.
I find more comfort here
than among the loud and thoughtless.

how i long so much to be
the clothes that cling so selfishly to your skin
the skinny jeans and t-shirts that lay with your flesh
or the pillow that caresses your cheek
wishing you good morning and willing your nightmares away

i hate the house that contains you
it keeps you safe wrapped in its arms
watches you dress and undress each day
a shameless spy with the perfect view

i am also quite envious
of the warm water that glides down your form
slipping in and out of the crevices
of perfect skin
like a gentle waterfall of pleasure

what i would give
to be the books you finger so longingly
fully captivating your attention
feeling you tremble on each of their pages
And stare at them intensely

perhaps someday
i will become the mosquito on your wall
drinking you day in and day out
appreciating every flavor
until i eventually die in your palm

finally

satisfied

She slumps in bed and thinks about the day,
The pain is rupturing inside her head.
She knows that she will never have her way,
At least, if she does not want to be dead.

A picture of her son sits on the shelf;
That face which she can hardly recognize.
She always thought that he looked like herself;
The same round cheeks, the same piercing blue eyes.

She desperately wants to go to him.
To hug his bones; so clean and so untouched,
But now she fears the light is growing dim,
So on she runs, for fear she might corrupt.

She shoots the liquid joy into her veins,
With dreams of death and hope for better days.

Death is a stalker of my mind,
passing through my thoughts. By night he beats his wings
against my subconscious,
chiseling away at my brain.
He is a bat, sinking his teeth into my flesh;
slowly ******* on my will to live.

By day, he is a charming businessman
dressed to the nines;
black suede shoes reflect the light missing from his eyes.
All suit but no tie,
for he wraps it tightly against my skull
and pulls.

He seduces me with promises of peace,
then slits my throat in hungry, violent demands.

I try to fight him off, but he is beautiful.
So I instead reach my arms out
to the boundless void,
and desperately grasp for his hand.

It is cold, but it is something.

I want him all the same, for he is safe,
and love,
and all things good.
A mirage of the senses.

There he lurks.
Ever present in the back of my mind;
bouquet of flowers in one hand,
a broken promise in the other.

Which one

will he present to me

today?

You feel a relief and you let out a cry,
two parts struggle and fight for control.
Do the heavens claim them and open up the skies,
or does Lucifer swallow them deep below?

Perhaps they remain on this earth for a time,
relishing in their newly found fame.
The word *****, the insufferable ooze and the slime
excreting from those who hardly knew their name.

You long to sob tears but they never come,
so you fake it and hope no one’s noticing.
Twist up your face and personify your glum,
display the illusion and own the sting.

The trauma they bred comes flooding back now,
slamming your ribs with a punch.
Their lies and deceit stain your brain like a vow
and topple your spine with a “crunch!”

But below they are now and below they will stay
till’ the maggots have had their fun.
Outside all adorned with tears and bouquets,
inside it’s all over and done.