she said to me
"just turn up your headphones, and dont think about it"
dont think about it?
well I dont believe they've made headphones that strong.
but I swallow my tears and turn up an angry song.
a song that screams, but not quite loud enough.

cause I can still hear the sounds, to this day I can hear the sounds.
of the table breaking,
the spirit dying,
the walls crumbling and the love fading.
"broken home" doesnt mean its really b..r..o..k..e..n.
we can fix it still.
I swear we can fix it

a naive heart can look past the scars on the arms,
and the writing on the ceiling.
the porch lights faded,
and the mail never comes,
the wounds are still tender,
it hurts too much to fix them now.

tear stains, like fresh blood, both leave a salty taste.
whose to say which brings  more pain?
the grand old trees cast shadows on this broken house,
to hide the parts we're not proud of,
fresh paint covers old scars,
and thoughts all but forgotten.

like a child playing games,
if you cant see the scars, then they're not really there.
until people start to walk your wall,
and the concentration breaks.

memories flood the pages of the paper you use to hide the wound,
a pen supplies the pressure.
when you write enough,
you lock it up in the parts that no one can see.

turn your headphones up and dont think about all the uncertainties.

It started with a phone call
Sent my hands shaking
Like his did, laying on that hospital bed
Like my voice did, the next day when I lied
About the truth.
The Truth.
The truth is that I was terrified
I was confused, I was hurt,
I was furious
And He was there,
but he wasn't…
He was there on that hospital bed
He was there with his hands shaking
He was there, his body convulsing
He was there, his wild blue eyes darting about the elevator
he wasn't there at all…

It started with a phone call
Your mom is coming, you have to go.
It must be an appointment
i couldn't think of one…
Is someone dead?
well no, not really...
We're going to the hospital
The hospital? I thought that was only for babies and old people
OCD, what's that? Oh, I mean, "O.D.'ed"
Same difference?
not really, no…

The next day, I lied.
I couldn't tell the truth,
The truth was hiding
Behind hospital doors, and hands that shook.
Hushed voices carried the truth in tones too low to be heard.
The truth attacked me at night
In memories that sent me shaking
Shivering so violently my mom got scared.              
The truth was blue
The truth was screaming at me
From the blue eyes of my brother
When he looked at me, and asked what it was like.
Not that he looked at me,
not really…

If I wrote a symphony, who would hear me?
If I wrote a book, would you take a look?
I don’t understand the constant novel of out lives,
the narration of our thoughts.
I don’t understand how you see life or how you see me.
The poetic discord that is our thoughts, the cymbals of our lives crashing together
do people think the way
I do? Surely, but who?

The fascination that comes
Could it ever be undone?
I’m confused on how I breathe, just being me,
I can’t escape the constant beating of my mind
my heart would skip a beat
if my pen did not teach me how to breathe.

And I’d like very much to..
Go through life as a paintbrush,
sending color to the darkness and the light,
to make a beautiful mess of this place.
To paint closed eyes open to a world that I can see,
to bring this vision out from inside of me.

But I don’t
Want to scare you with how I think
The monster consumes the air I breathe is ink.
Exhaling words on to paper that surrounds me
the chaos that controls my hands and lifts my feet
and takes me on a ride,
never far enough away from this constant I create.
This wonderland of absence to the fake.
My dreams make more sense when I’m sleeping
it gets hard to tell when I’m awake, even then I can’t help but shake. Trembling monster inside me, can’t hide me.
I’m lost. But I’d rather not find me.
Out loud

I’ll write it all down,
trying to match the rhythm of my hand to the pulsating thoughts in my brain.
Does anyone feel this way?
I’d like to show you…
I’m bleeding. Dripping. Painting a scene.
Oh, I’m painting a scene.
Its SO LOUD I wish it would SHUTUP
Shutup and let me breathe, I am painting, painting a scene.

Step into my eyes, I dare you.

My father was a philosopher, or liked to pretend as much.
He couldn’t look at the world for what it was, but rather what it represented.
“This tree isn’t just a tree,” he’d say,
“It’s a symbol of the wisdom of man,
growing until it’s cut away, stripped, and used for God knows what purposes.”
To me, it was just a wooden friend made for climbing.

There was a frozen lake near us he often gazed over while driving to the 7-11 for cigs.
He said it was a perfect image of impermanence:
a beautiful crystal sea with solid skin, soon to melt, and become a bathtub to wash the local compost clean.

My brother and I go sledding on our snow days.
If you don’t, well, it might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.

We’d slide across that glassy plain on our bellies,
our hearts beating through the ice;
music for the fishes below.
It was in those days that I thought of my life as perfect,
and I realized all the possibilities that the fire of my youth could fuel.
Well, one day our hearts beat too fast,
or too strong,
or the fish wished to meet the musicians, or something happened for reasons which I still can’t come to terms with.
The glass… it shattered.
And my brother fell through the other side,
to dance with the herrings and sturgeons till he was all out of breath.
And he tired quickly of the dance.
And I wasn’t a strong enough partner to lead him off the dancefloor.

My father, when he heard the news of his son’s new hobby,
it was as though every book he ever read,
and every four-syllable word he ever knew,
and every overdrawn metaphor he ever spoke were all just a weird series of lies.
He swam into his bedroom, and through a blizzard of thrown pictures, sobs, and “*****” he calmed himself to stupor.


He went in the room my father, the intellectual, and came out as Roy, the sorrow-drunken spatter of roadside slush.
Whenever we pass the lake, he no longer comments on what it represents, but rather what it is:
“a ******-up graveyard for innocent little angels.”  
The world is no longer a set of symbols, but a tangible environment,  
though one he looks at through a lens of tears and amber bloodshots.  
My father is no longer a philosopher, but a poet, spitting out sonnets of regret and rage.  

And as for me, I haven’t really much to talk about.
I guess I’m sitting stagnant, frozen.  
I don’t want to be like my father, but I’m realizing it’s inevitable.
I haven’t felt anything genuine since his heart beat its last song.
Hell, I don’t even sled on snow days anymore.  
They might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.

The delightful sting
of your words hit
my infected scars
with such force
and pain,you feel it too
but could care less,
for you like to think it only goes on
french fries
not me,
am I as good as they
or do I lie?
about me, you,
and then I again?

I may be bitter
as that which
you pour,
but I don't eat away like
your fluid,as I'm content to keep it
bottled
collecting,
forever or until
my walls are gone.

You love vinegar
on everything you eat eh?
so do I really,
but I don't taste very good with it,
Vinegar is what makes me and
yet it is working
to destroy
what was
what is
and what
might have been
a very good french fry.


http://www.robross.ca

The hunter's moon, its reddish glow
Replaced the golden gleam of the forgiving sun.
The hunted sits on his rocking chair,
Pensive, dreaming, remembering.
The darkness of his study is disturbed
When a ray of the scarlet moon,
Playfully enters through the battered window
And rests, mockingly, upon his collection of Goethe's.
The smell of incense from a spectral source
Fills the room with dreams and nightmares.
He sees the image of someone he has long known.
Her visage dim but fair; his face, scared and pale.
Her shadow slides along the walls until it stands behind him.
She leans forward and whispers into his ear.
The playful ray of crimson glow passes by,
Leaving the room again in apathetic darkness.

Imagine a twin, a copy, a clone, if you will,
A rendition.
Inclined to think more than talk while you talk a lot.
Eyes blink in sync and blush the same pink.
Take her by the hand, your hand, witness, in reflection.
Reflection.
Paint your desires and preferences on her.
Think.
What will ameliorate me?
Me revealing me.
Mirror yourself, then look at the mirror.
Feel, see the differences,
You think you hate yourself,
Original face green, bulging, crinkled,
Spiteful, ugly, over-analytical, unlovable, wrinkled?
No.
Mirrors never show how other people see you.
Adorable, attractive, warm, honest, loving.
What exists of you?
No carbon copies, no pictures could bear
The weight of your beautiful, playful, blue glare.
Clones would collapse, too high a bar to reach,
Astound, heartache, rain-cloud eyes, cherished,
I am your ears, I am your heart, I am you.
 
With you, for you, because of you,
 
I love you.