Let's pretend I can read your mind.

What unkind words would you not say,
     whose name would you hide?

What places would you flee, in dismay,
or wish to Caribbean cruise to?

If I could hear your love,
what would it tell me
     that I do not already know?
What kind of fantasies would whisper?
Will your fears be softly moaned,
or scream loudly to be let go?

Let's pretend you knew I could
hear deeper all your silences,

     how many flatteries, there, would echo
like broken vinyl,
a skipping heartbeat, a flat tire...on the road…

Would you still lie, if you knew--that I knew,
still believe in them?
Still make me believe you good?
(never telling the truth)

Let's say you could
hear my thoughts... my inner worth...

Would you condemn me and herald my secrets?
Command me for your work
     make me a lackey
     or say I'm crazy
to everybody—a nobody...?

If you could see inside me
or feel my worst hurts,
would you understand \why and how
my heart should burst?

And of course, this is all make believe,
imagination at it's height,
     but true life is another sort
     of his and her stories….

from our minds' eyes
to witness
to be told :  be realized.
And every tale has once come true:
man now
     flying, cloning,
          in rockets to the moon,

I'm sure my fiction will be
written soon, if not already
In that book...

what kind of mood
“He” must of had when craving
King & Koontz
the idea of me...
           (and “god” knows who)
scratching chin
his beard of white
in a bowl of crocodile tears,

playing pretend,
and silent night
our living years...in a sigh.

(No need to read your mind
I can feel your lies, goodbye.)