Metal softly clinks on ceramic.
Fingers joggle embossed grip,
elevate blades toward moistened hide.

Darkness covers the corner
opposite antique coaster bed
disheveled by fitful sleepers.  

Her hair, twirled into tangles
flows on the pillow, nasal noises
mask the music of his movements.

Any light might arouse her,
awakening her to revive
last night's squabble.

Their endless feud
over contentions long forgotten  
encircles their days.

Blades glide over chin and cheeks.  
Shaving quietly in darkness
avoids anger in the morning.

Where is my Apollo?
Where is my Muse?
The eyes like amber rose
That burned my lips with scars
of liars words
and a foolish bards wish
to kiss the lips of he who plagues me
to end it all in
one
foul
swoop

They ask me why I laugh
I tell them
A way to cope
I’m just happy
I like the feeling

Truth is I don’t know
Truth is I have an easy life.
All of the above
None of the above
Seems to be part of life.

Is it not enough
that my mind is haunted
with dark monsters?

creatures of doubt
that creep around
corners with pins,
and whisper "failure"
lovingly to every bright
balloon of hope.

spiders of anxiety
crawl over
flowers of bravery
and spin a web
that makes
courage cower.
bravery buckle.
power petrified.

Is it not enough
that I battle
my own brain?
would I rather have
the life to match?
to 'justify'
my art,
my work,
my ****** expressions?

I wasn't aware
that I have to earn
depression---
that I first must
live a life worthy
of sadness

And now I question
if I'm just
broken
spoiled
or should quest for
the existence to
more properly fit
the mind
I was born with.