how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner       wherever You want
that the world is not assembling itself
atom by sticky atom
from the blueprints
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming, fluttering
together with the ebb of Your consciousness?
-
the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
(snappily)
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending pixilated reality smoothly
into an orchestrated Existence
-
the next time You      reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the waiting room
-
give
pause
listen            
carefully
-
can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           scraping
sliding
           shoving past each other?
-
they                jockey
       jumping into
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs
-
she wants to know
why we divide
Them              from Us
-
so clearly
so readily
-
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment
-
A dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.
-
how would You know?
people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space
                                                           ­         -
                                             the smell of burnt matches
                             -                                      -
                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death
                             -
               but in an ugly way
-                            -
the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)
-
until They speak or You look Them in the eye
-
until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk
-
They are afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-
where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
just this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him
                             -               -
                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through
                                      -
                              in the end
-                                     -
the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn
diamond
-
perfect           (silence)
-
broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed
-                                -
You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now
-
speak           look Yourself in the eye
-
see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk
-
don’t be afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-          -
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that laughing quietly to themselves
can (You) set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?
                              -
              yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                        to know
               that she likes him
                              -
                      in the end
-                             -
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
to keep Them      out
and Us       in
-                                   -
           this is Mine                  and that is Yours
-                                   -
You see
what You want to see (without)
-
(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past reads:
                           “jesus is coming,
                                  hide the ****”
-                                          -
in its green lettering
and its largely silent voice
-
if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear Them
-                  -
              giggling
                ­   -                       -
              please do not think about green elephants
-                                          -
(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)
-                                       -
             please do not feed the green elephants
-                                       -
I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles into
existence
on the very next          page
-                              -
             ­       You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                    except for death
                                 -
                   it is an ugly thing
                                    -
               yet still the chisel gouges
                  -               -
  “i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride”
      llac ot eltsihw i”
  “edis ym ot god ym
                  -        -
        through the crumbling protests
         of the reluctant stone
                               -    -
                     ­               each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death
-                                  -
You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live
                       -
You casually craft causality
         -             -
         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP
-        -
the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all things must come to end one day
-                                       -
You
Yourself

have tasted the                     hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 wealth
                       of Hatred
heard the                               stories
          ­             of Genocide
felt the                                    loss
                     ­  of War
and smelled the                    decay
                       of Truth
-                      -
                      this        ­     is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...

All the world's a stage for me,
My life, a delicate act.
Pretending I have no problems,
I leave those in the dressing room each day.
Scene one, I put on my smile,
And pretend I'm beautifully care-free
Exit stage right, lock the dressing room door
And cry myself to sleep.
Scene two, whatever the audience wants,
I'm only here to amuse
Exit stage left, and lie down for the night
Staring at the ceiling, half-dead.
Scene three, pretend I love my life,
Dance and laugh and sing
Exit once more, one very last time,
And make my plans to die.

I sit and wait
Wait for this mental suffering to end
For someone to tell me it'll all be okay
That someone doesn't come
The thoughts do
You can end it all
You're pathetic
Worthless
No one cares
But I know I shouldn't end it
I want an eternity, though I know I don't deserve it
But how do I escape this?
And there's my familiar friend
Sitting next to me
Beckoning me
To press his blade into my skin
To make my mental pain physical
To make myself bleed
I pick him up
And listen to him
I let out a few sobs
As my blood runs down my arm
But I quickly shut up
Someone might hear
I wipe my tears and blood away
Walk out of the bathroom
And smile through my pain.;

Inside you there is fire
   Not many could withstand the heat.
I've stood at your core
   Unwilling to face defeat.

Inside you there is Beauty
   Exquisitely mesmerizing & Pleasing to all
God's finest composition
   I believe I just saw.

Inside you there is Depth
  Many got confused and lost their way
I explore you freely
   Finding new adventures each day.

Inside you there is Peace
  Others have pilfered and then withdrew.
I will replenish it fully
   So that you may enjoy some too.



© Tina Thompson

The sun chases the moon,
and the moon chases me.
I sit still,
content and free.

Our science is wrong,
but our religion is worse.
Only by ignoring the two,
can you orbit in reverse.

In a factory jungle,
among birds and things,
the child slave labors,
over your wedding ring.

I went their once,
it wasn't too bad,
the flies don't bite,
but the liquor drives you mad.

Oblivity is ecstasy!
Ignorance is bliss!
so says I,
so says the abyss.

Sitting on the window; looking out onto the terrace,
I was gazing into the twilight, feeling the wind seep into my heart,
Right then he had started to play.

A lonely figure in the moonlight, he was a solitary monk,
Strumming away on his guitar,
Luring out heaven’s saddest notes on the way.

And I began to lose myself too,
In the depths of his deep baritone voice of immeasurable sorrow,
As I vainly fought to blink the tears away.


His music had taken me home in another time,
Into her loving arms softer than soft,
Those that nursed me once and set me right.

I took the violin in my trembling hand,
Accompanying the lonely singer, I lapsed into the past,
The past that I didn’t want to have fight.

The fire that had taken her body, raged within me now,
Every note stabbed our souls as we keened; the world awoke to us,
Mine and his, our grief and music intertwined.

He finally looked up, right onto my face searching a balm for his fractured soul,
And all he saw was his own pain reflected in mine,
We kept on playing; Into that dark, cold night.


**For our first love,
The first face we ever saw with open eyes,
For a mother, A gasp of fresh air,
For the love, the love of our life.

I wish to speak
nonsense words and
be understood; for
I am a poet.
Every and any
meaningless thing has a
meaning.
You just have to
look for it.
So my job is to
give these things their
purpose, give them their
life.

I
breath life into the
letters I form,
for I am a
savior. These
words had no intentions until I
picked them up and
brushed off their dust. I
caress them and
care for them and
bend them to my will;
they oblige willingly.
These words create
art on your page, and
I am the
artist, putting
ideas in your mind from a
simple picture. But
this picture you can
read. You can
read the
emotions and
ideas plainly.

I wish to put
thoughts in your mind, for
I am a hypnotist.
I take these words and
twist them to your
preference,
infiltrating your subconscious with
my ideas that I
****** upon you;
I leave
subliminal messages to
think what I think,
do what I do,
say what I say.
You don’t even realize that
you do the same with your
own words.

I wish to be
noticed, for I am
human.
I
write these words
feverishly, hoping that
SOMEONE will
see them,
read them,
appreciate them.
I pour out my
heart and soul in a form that
you will listen to;
all I ask in return is your
approval,
response,
opinion.
Any reaction would suffice.
But it’s for
you that I write, for
you that I take
time and energy to
face my fears,
expose my flaws,
expose my
self;
prove me vulnerable.
Yet
you give me nothing in return.
And I
continue in this
thankless career,
dreaming of the day when
somebody will realize that
all I want is to be
appreciated.