Just because my eyes
are slightly more red than the
average, and my ears listen more to
                                                                ­                                                    roars

than normal talk. My fingers are
more greedy, reaching for things
never yearned
                                                                ­                                                    before

I met you. Why now do familiar faces wish to
pour into my sharp eyebrows
                                                        ­                                                            speec­hes

I don't care much to hear. Does
it matter that running feels more
natural, instinct that I should feel
                                                            ­                                                        afraid

b­ut I don't. Do I care to
figure out
                                                                ­                                                    the monster

that reflects back into my cheekbones.
What does it hungar for? What does it
know? I'm not sure if I have the  
                                                           ­                                                          will

to overcome it. Or the ability to pry away
the nails that resemble too much
the rage of
                                                              ­                                                        claw

mar­ks. Dare I take a light into these dark
thoughts and search for long sentences
that traveled
                                                        ­                                                              awa­y

from the mess. What do I expect to find, what
is it I look to now for answers? Should I
stand on
                                                                ­                                                       what's left

of this old bridge with these rotten logs and
aging secrets? This sight- is it part
                                                            ­                                                            of me

or is it just a sad painting I keep confusing
with a sad memory. My heart aches for beauty
in the intriguing hues of gray.
                                                           ­                                                             or maybe

this gallery, this mueseum of
inner maps will lead to new rooms.
Red eyes, angry claws, mighty roars,
sharp eyebrows
                                                                ­                                                        the monster is

what I believed to represent. Perhaps
it is only a mere splattering of
                                                              ­                                                            brush­strokes

I allowed my mind to be absorbed into. Like
all good art, it captured my soul, paralyzed.
                                                      ­                                                                 ­     and I

was unsure of reality. How funny
it is to be so lost and not know it. Now
I see clearly, now I can
                                                             ­                                                              continue

to know. Know what I hungar for, what
I crave. I am what I want
                                                            ­                                                                 to be

and that is as comforting as walking
onto a porch to observe the sun as it
dives into solid ground.
                                                         ­                                                                 ­    Free

as the cool night air, welcoming
the stars and all the promise a new
morning has to offer.

we resemble
pen and paper

You help me and
I help you

now we have a chance to
write a story together
a new adventure

let's make it full of happiness

A canvas is merely a mirror
Yet, I change to fit the image-remake reflections
Feel me as paper in the frame- might I be glossy as oil, will eyes slant along bends in light,
does the dull perfume of ink still linger? Hush -
is there a faint pushing of blood through painted veins?
I taste the sour stroke of an artist's mistake
Pointed footsteps echo insults, "Stupid Girl". Such prickly laughter slit
the base of stone statues.
I sense a million standing bodies
and a building desire to melt- hidden as one of the alluring ladies
amongst the crowd. I will chisel my features to charm the masses
The lashes that brim my sight mimic the bristles of a paintbrush-
yes I blink masterpieces!
Enchanted emotions engage everything
With the speech from a baton, the passion in symphonies will mesmerize
Dive from the stage, explorer- sometimes when we imitate we fly.
The image becomes me, I become the image.
Will the lens of film alter too?
Might the harsh flash of society disfigure itself yet again?
I stare at us all- each an individual glimpse of art

no one will understand this
gibberish is more like it- some foreign language
it doesn't make sense
no one will understand
I'm not quite sure I do

fuzzy
it's becoming
scratch that
I'm becoming
me?

see the way the t.v. laughs at our faces
when the screen irritates our ears with
complaints
we watch it too much
we crave it way more than we
should
oh shoot I assumed again
replace the we's with I
actually.......nevermind
I don't care- I feel like I'm right about that
this time
....sorry?

but that sound
[the laughing-the continuous laughing]
that is where fuzzy comes
into play- this little game this little trial run
with it's "rules" which are really "guidelines" because no one intends on
listening to any of it
because everyone intends on
stepping over lines, breaking all their words
they said couldn't....they said they would never
bend
[well they bend all the time- but i'll say it's because we are
human. mistakes are natural, deal with it. human- I'm allowed to not
listen(understand).     I'm allowed]
oh right that fuzz
talk about annoying
just turn it off
it isn't hard okay, it isn't hard
just do it already

much better
so much better
hey did you know that
I walked into my room today and
didn't feel a single twinge
of negativity
I beat the rules
[I'm allowed]
beat them dead
sure I know it hasn't been long enough
blah blah
still beat it, stepped over the line
and it feels goooood babe
it feels real good

hope that the weather is less bitter about
ahem.....love
than I am
that word .....frankly look at it
it's just a bunch of lines
and people always step on those, break them, bend them, try and change their shape
so the original meaning, the true ....personality of the word love
its a bit harder to discover since it became a game of hide and seek and pick up sticks

or it hides
away in a pocket
that someone made themself
really we all make the word ourselves
stitch by stitch
until it looks right
"right"
you found love?
great!

hope you don't lose it

hope you think it's right

hope you actually mean it

hope that girl you find
                                                          kn­ows it's not real

harsh? fine, whatever


do you get it?
yeah of course you don't
you never did

you never could
because you were never meant to understand

because you were never meant for me

I may not know exactly what to do
this could be all wrong
this could be all right
all I know is
I like how when my head becomes
too heavy and folds to the side
it comes to rest on your shoulder
resembling a shelf I can escape to
high above the sharp teeth memories sometimes
leave bare, snarling yet whimpering
afraid they are being enclosed
shut away
in a wooden box. smooth wood.
surrounded with travel tags that turns out lead to
the closet

this could be all wrong
this could be all right
however I know when my eyes drift I say goodnight
and it's not to you
in fact, a lot of me has absolutely
nothing to do with you
the links of my chains are dwindling
that's all me old friend
all me

simple peace
lazy behind the left side of my chest
it resides
the pain you created is becoming what it was meant to be
a memory
the past

                                                           ­                                I'm saying it's becoming easier and I
                                                                ­                           mean that
                                                            ­                               I hate to admit this
                                                            ­                               but
                                                             ­                              there are moments ( most inconvenient)
                                                   ­                                        when you arrive to haunt me

nonetheless
simple peace
I like it.

                             I hope you have found it too
                             then again
                             you were already
                             well on your way

hah
so you know you
make me smile
right?

I realize I am fairly
broken at the moment but
smiling feels
amazing

can't tell you how much it means
to me
that you take my mind
and let it just think whatever, let it
freely wonder
to a place that doesn't hurt at all
not at all

wow
surprised that you help all the
sad that always built up behind my eyes
the sad that drove me mad, blinded
you helped it all
disappear
now it is becoming
a dull buzz
that hurts like the memory of getting stung

a faint sting
no one dies from a little sting
(ok well not unless they are allergic.......)
good thing I'm not!
hah!

I'm really saying thank you
thank you thank you

for being my friend

To the creator somewhere above all our heads,

they (we) call you
GOD

G   osh
O   h
D   on't we all wish

that we really knew
who/how/what you are
so
we could send you letters, with all the stamps you need, and we could ask all these
?  ?questions?          ? that float                                   ?                      ?                      ?         ?                  ?
float and attach to our finger tips              ?                    ?                        ?­                             ?                    ?
we use whatever we can to smudge it across sur(faces)
like we spilled ink on our hands and we can't get it off
                                        get it off
instead we just end up living with it, learning from it, painting with it
almost as if we believe that we can be artists who
paint in black and white
but there is lots of color too, all settled in between the letters between the
lines
lines and lines of these questions that we try to ask
or get rid of
                                        get rid of
because you know we all just want to make living a little less complicated, a little less
covered in smudges
always trying to make the perfect picture
Perfect.
Like heaven
Heaven
creating our own idea of the word here
just in case we don't find it
later on


I don't really know what to say to
all this air
what I say, well
it just shoots across and hits the wall
smack
waiting, stuck, like a post-it note waits on a desk
I think i'll peel it off and re-read
make sure I meant to say it aloud
then try harder
see, the thing is I ran out of stamps
but that doesn't mean I can't still address a letter and let it
float

GOD

G   osh
O   oh
D    on't we all wish for


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