singing is the only freedom-
a lasting moment
this side of the grave

Third floor psych ward window lookout,
second from the right on the east side.
Best seat available, padded, from 1934.
Backrest Swingline-stapled to the faux-
Maple leg support 2 x 4s. Beige bedspread,
white walls blend into the door threshold
that people are honeymoon'd
through kicking the aids, clawing at their eyes.

But Téa sat there watching the overcast
shadows sweep the sky heavily
like the watercolor paintings on the group
room plastic table where ******-off
preteens paint Dad beating them,
or Sis dying in a car crash.

Téa just sat there while the stagnant Valley
tumbled dry low outside, tuning out
a black patient behind her riling-up
another fight with a plastic-hinged
particleboard door.

Swinging.

Blame it on the weak
For they are kind of heart and blinded by reason-
It makes for such easy prey
But such a close and tender evening-
Nights lost in tepid confusion
Although always leading to a false conclusion-
But then again
there are them...

They are the thieves of dreams
Not In search of Rubies nor gems but something that cannot buy you such friends-
A human heart to call their own
A head to scrape along the wall
All to play their selfish selfish games
To have you for their very own

So Why do we love them ?
the ones who make us feel so lonely and scared
Such Neglect Is something we shouldn't dare to bare-
If the world is full of such wonderful people
Why do we fall for those Liars and Cheats?
Such vicious jokes
But they got you...

And I watched you
as you prooved yourself wrong
Dragging yourself through storms to be somewhere you must truly belong
Something you call good-
Well you have a bad case of mirror syndrome, it's true
You fell to the depths of someone-               surely not you