I'm afraid to stand out
And be different.
What if I look odd?
What if I'm judged?

I'm afraid of using big words,
Even though they sound beautiful.
What if I use it wrongly?
I'll be thought of as a fool.

Most of all,
I'm afraid
Of telling you
That I love you
Everyday.

It's meant to be a cute,
Sweet gesture.
A way of
Reminding you
You're the best thing
In my life.

But what if
It slowly becomes a mere routine for me?

Worse still,
What if
One day
Your reply is,
"I don't, anymore."?

Like a seed blowing across the wind
In many directions it may go;
Give it time, give it time
Let it sprout, let it sprout;

Step back, keep watch
Let it amaze you;
But don't go too far
Because it needs you;

Give it solid ground to stand upon
Water it with tears of happiness
Shine upon it with rays of love.

We always leave before the sun leaks through the faded curtains
Throwing clothes over our raw skin so the sky doesn't see us.
And you mostly pretend to sleep soundly on the bed, inching towards to crease where I fall asleep.
Because you're okay with leaving.
And because I've done it enough to prefer it.
Dances like ours aren't meant for the light of the day or the twinkle of the stars
But for the pitch black, utter, endless darkness of a windless night.
You are a cold breeze on my otherwise warm afternoon, giving me goosebumps and making me shiver.
Something I haven't decided if I like or not.

little boy and little
cat blue,
roar around the hallways
during the monster hour.

the man mountain
lumbers behind
in frankestein pose
intoning
"the tickle man comes for
you....
the tickle man cometh,
to tickle your rickles,
and grasp your giggles,
and eat your toes!!!"
in his deepest basso
profundo.

momma, sits on the couch
in a zombie like pose
as she waits for the clock
to wind out the hour

and in the kitchen
the caulldron bubbles
with "brains and veins"
on the go.

The hot sun does cast
a tarnished light
over a pale,
washed-out forest,
full of obnoxious sound.

And the distant stars
do grow dim,
filling a sky
that is only black,
found often to be
an intoxicating elixir
for the simple-romantic,
who believes
in such wild-fantasy.

And any whim
was exactly that,
only a whim
& never true.

And who knew silence,
O that lovely lonely sound,
was so sweet,
so comforting,
calling me,
calling me
with a devil's refrain,
"Love thyself sinner
& no one else,
love thyself sinner
& no one else,
to avoid
the eternal heartbreak,
to avoid
the eternal heartbreak!"

Between bullets and policy planks
between boundary lines and front lines
between to's and fro's and diplomatic tussles
pin-pong, ding- ****, right-wrong or otherwise
between threatening noises and patient posturing
between reasons why and why not
it belongs to us and nobody else.

We sat here from the dark ages
under lamplight, streetlight and flares
and fires from revolutions of evolutions
creating a culture of claim
to establishment of our rights
as indigenous people.

And so who are you?
walking into this quarter of globe
claiming you know better on
what belongs to who and why?

Between round tables
and square tables
round people and square people
beautiful women marching up on stage
books open and ready,

we will place our signatures
to seal the argument that
nothing belongs to nobody
until the signature sits
comfortably on an uncanny page.

" Please sign here, Mr Prime Minister!"
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. A signature seals the fate of all arguments. The first man to get his pen out and push a signature wins the argument.

The pen IS mightier than the sword.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.