Do you see me or do you see her?
She looks like me,
She moves like me,
Speaks like me,
But she is not me.
I hate her so much,
Hate the life she can touch.
She is the darkness,
Can I make a wish to make her go,
Day to day I must work to tell her no.
She is the old man and I am the new,
Living in the Light of God,that is the glue,
To keep centered,really centered on You.
This is not easy,for it is hard,
Speaking this to you, being the Bard.
Heart to heart to let you know,
you my friend are not alone.
We are all broken with two sides,
forever taken in the bye and bye,
I work on the one with the glimmer of Light,
And waiting for the other one to lose their might.

You asked me once,
if I'd written about you.
I'd smiled as I shook my head.
With every word I write, a part of you settles on the page, amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
Leaving smudges across the page.

I used to believe the reason I picked up a pen, sprawling ink along a once pristine page was to rid myself of you.
Word by word, drawing you out to settle amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
I reflect on a night, spent with a lover.
My hands refused to settle,
agitated by the urge to write.
Long, shaking lines made up the letters trailing around my bare legs.
A whispered voice calls me to return, the urge is gone.
Perhaps the writing isn't for the abandonment of you. Perhaps it is the last of you - all I have now.
Muddled amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.

******* in a paper bag
towel doubled as a rag
suitcase holding treasured randoms
and notebooks filled with cryptic tandems
very little ventilation
and an unclaimed mess that's hated
sacred corner on the desk
the rest a "collage:" a mess
mirror mirror on the wall
tells the truth, leaves me appalled
thin covering on the ground
worn where almost all is brown
hand-me-down pillow case smeared with liner
and the tears from last night's crier

I have buried them alive---
the tatters of malformed thoughts
squelched at the root of my tongue,
wrought by murky fingertips in dreams.

Still, they bloom in me---
beyond my grasp, beyond all wisdom.
I cannot blot your poetry from my eyes,
Nor one gentle glance, nor untouched cheek.

If I say I love you, I will burn---
What I bear will be indelible, uncrucifiable
An incantation to raise the spirits of my sins,
irredeemable black curses to cast me from eden.

And should gardenias creep to my lips,
I will ***** them out, and plant acacia in my breath---
I will swallow the roots of their hearts,
and eat your fire eternally.