The hydrangeas look tired
In the well kempt yards
They look thirsty, gasping
Like they can't breathe
They remind me of old friends
They remind me of me

It makes me sad
That I get used to the smell
Of the dirt, the cold Earth
And the flowers and trees
And even the sea.
They all smell like nothing eventually.

I can hear the stream
Way down in the gorge
I can hear the leaves falling
Soft and slow
From the canopy
To the gentle valley below

Most birds don't sing
So sweet and so kind
They chitter hysterically
Sharply, calling out
For some sort of lifeline
Maybe just each other

I wish the Earth could embrace me
I do what I can to accept the gracious
Reassurance of its magnetic energy
Taking solace in the knowledge
That eventually the ground will envelop me
And I'll dissolve; Raindrop to the sea.

wade into the Ocean

knee deep or so

shut your eyes tight

feel the sand - solid

- beneath your toes.

begin to slip

unsteady, afraid of the unknown

hear it in the waves

as it bites and it roars

it's telling you something

the sharp needle pain

can become a whisper

a firm embrace

if you listen long enough

EXHAUSTED
slips from my lips
like a sigh
abandoned
not halfway through
for a yawn.

EXHAUSTED
silent H, obvious
in my mouth.
Like sharing
too many words;
unnecessary.

EXHAUSTED
synonym for
the sick stomach squeezing
feeling, barely breathing
through tentacles
entwining my insides.

There is something
so familiar
about fluorescent lights
and white tile;
it's so familiar
my stomach aches.

I think it comes
from the times
I laid myself bare
in bathroom stalls;
safe havens
of false privacy,
a reliable friend.

The trash receptacles
that held words
that choked
my fifteen year old throat.

The faithful ceiling fans
that ****** up
my desperate
time killing smoke.

The scratched up mirrors
I'd stare into
without even
seeing myself.

I could sit for hours
hot head on the cool tile
the bright lights
tiring my eyes,
tasting salt,
and smelling the cheap
pink soap,
feeling the heavy
comfort, like home.

Sipping milk
from the river Styx

Head grows soft
brains degrade

Mush
oozing out

Slow, slow, slow
dripping

Like the tired rain
on the window pane

Crystal
clear once

Now fog fills
the cracks

the grime reflects light,
blanched and unclean.
the dirt needs
a soft sweep.
mop away the impurities-
don't they disgust?-
but soap can't wash
them from us.

the bath water turns milky
and green like the aura
of the ***** girl
drowning in flora
to become a soft flower.
clean and bleached,
she isn't as good as the others.

the facade is gone
and a demon shone.
it's in the skin
and inhabits the bone.

blood red flesh
cuts open the green-
the prettiest purification
you've ever seen-
and tries to make the thing clean;
the mirrors harsh light
reflects it- not quite right-
to the viewers foolish eye.

and so it has been left
to writhe
like a snake in a bowl.
lonely, lonely, still.
not like the other seeds
that will grow and plant
themselves in an elegant dance.

warm water,
sink beneath-
engulfed;
don't breath-
calm
settles over,
heart beat slows;
dying, dying, slowly.
gasp!
for air
lungs filled,
heart quickens.