Honey, we're carpet tacks and missing strings,
Bits of foil and faded rings.
We're the sticks and the stones
That keep breaking our bones;
Yours, mine, and ours,
Play pretend no more horrors.
I've been stitched up, I've bled
And, God, we're hanging on to this thread
That will snap in an instant as soon as we
Forget what we are.

We are puppets and dolls
Designed for a cause
That not many, so few,
Stop to see in this zoo
Of our nations, our cities,
Our countries, shunning deities,
Never minding what's different;
What's precious to you.

Sons and daughters of the day
Ought to stand up and say
That to live is to die and to die is to save
Ourselves from ridicule and mistrust
And those who would shed dust
On the graves of our fathers, our mothers
Beloved sisters and brothers
Who loved all the differences enough to stand,
To not assault hearts for the sake of their plans.

Cut of denim cloth and old burlap,
All I hear now the pound and the slap
Of our hands as they work to encourage the crowd,
Screaming louder and louder until we're upright and proud.

In the details lies the devil, you know,
And the best way to beat him's not to let fear show.
We are one realm of many, not many realms of few,
So say what you say knowing not all will be like you.

We are puppets and dolls,
Here designed for a cause.
We're carpet tacks and missing strings,
Bits of foil and faded rings.
We're the sticks and the stones
That keep breaking our bones;
Yours, mine, and ours.

I've never been afraid to die.

If I am afraid of anything,
it is inadequate life.
I fear not holding to my ideals,
not being understanding, kind, compassionate.
I fear being overwhelmed,
permitting others to make my decisions.
I fear being untrue to who I am.

I don't fear death.
I don't fear people or life or
the dread that comes with it.
I fear being idle,
refusing to attempt building
an echo of my voice.
I fear not opening doors, making no
attempts rather than those which are vain.

I fear not keeping promises,
the commitments made to people,
be they deemed as real or fiction.

I fear not being young while I can,
not being an open spirit,
not being honest and centered
around only myself.
To die without making change,
an attempt.

I expect to die old, fulfilled;
to possess these years in
which I now live as photographs
on paper and text printouts.
Genuine recollections,
spread beyond myself and shared.

I wish to die known for my convictions,
whether they appease the masses
or my own compass.
I want to die knowing that I
loved and lost and found again.

I want to die old and grey and fragile
rather than young and pretty
and adhering to a false culture which
we swallow whole.

I've never been afraid to die.

When you grow up on the outside
looking in, even if you
get inside, you don't feel
like you belong there.

So you stick close to the walls,
and associate with
similar beings.

You enjoy isolated places,
maybe rain more than sun,
thoughts and fiction
more than people.

You are
You are the odd one out
with letters painted
on your face
and people watching.

Always watching.

I miss the late white nights
brimming with streetlights
and forcing refuge
from the cold.

Before fires and
warm mugs in hand,
you are home.

I have not known fear, but the
unpleasantries that often are emotion.
A purpose - to care, to need, to understand,
to love - is needed.
Without one, a desire, perhaps a dream,
this life could not exist.
I feel a pain, that of a heart left wanting,
waiting for that which will be real.
Yet there is a fear, a lingering shadow that,
I think, may last if I let it.
For a time, I will cast you aside, not down and away,
so that I may be at peace.
Truth is what I hunger for.
That satisfaction in knowing that my world is set right.
To know that it is possible, to feel safe and protected, is what I seek.
I will not put this aside, a distant memoir kept within the pages of a dusty book.
It remains, images as real and alive as my hand cast into snow.
To say goodbye to a dream is as if to say that it never belonged; that it was never wanted.
That which is lacking is imperfect.
Seek it, but you will not find.
In a world riddled with wounds, one cannot have everything.
I seek only what pacifies my spirit.

Do not speak and call it gone.
There are ways in which we are reminded.
They can never leave us.

Do not say that it is impossible.
We are shallow, imperfect, seeking greatness.
It obscures us, our sight,
darkened clouds over the bane of night.
As the sun and the moon
both rise and set, each giving chase,
we are ever growing.

Do not say that hope is hopeless.
People live in sorrow, knowing naught but fear.
Others are blessed, sleeping soundly in their beds.
But men who hope and men who dream
have all found reasons why.

Do not turn and walk away.
It may be too late by the time return dawns.
The sole companion will then be memories.
And recollections do not provide
the same comfort as does
your hand in mind.

Do not say that love is empty.
Words have meaning, a use in space and time.
Interpretation is important,
but understanding is more so.
Both are infinite.

Do not say that something has died.
A body, crumbling to dust is what remains.
A spirit, lightweight and eternal, waits still.
So long as those who loved and lost
and remember remain,
we do not truly die.

Baby, there's a
white chalk outline in the street tonight
for the boy down the road
who didn't have a chance at life.

There's a lady working down
at the truck stop on Third,
and she's racing home tonight
to confirm what she's heard.

That's her baby in a casket,
not the usual sort,
and his mother's screaming in the storm
begging God to take this hurt.

There's a girl across town
who lost the things she had,
and the only thing she knows now
is the fright that's in her head.

Her father's in the living room
where he loads his shotgun,
almost hoping that the
**** from prom will
show himself again.

There are children in the desert,
in the city, in the streets
and they are dying every day.
All we do is argue
over what is best to say.

The journalists and soldiers,
those who worked a mile high.
Honest folks are turned to martyrs
and their names are used in vain.
No one considers rationale,
only how to profit gain.

We're political, tyrannical, existentially obsessed;
we haven't got a thought for those
who haven't even dressed.

"They aren't here; they're there;
we haven't got the time."
But if there's anything I know,
it's that my time isn't even mine.

"Jimmy wouldn't take me out tonight."
"Martha never called me back!"
"I wish that Art had never talked to me."
"I hope you have a heart attack!"

People dying every day
and no one seems to give a ****.

We are vain and we are damaged
and we will never be the same.
It seems that all which matters
is just how well you play the "game."

There is a moment for everyone.
When stars fall to earth as the moon sings,
dropping its tender notes upon
the glass surface of the sea.
Gently, as if a deep snow had come to life.

The morning fazes out beautiful blue,
the clouds kissed by a warm orange glow,
ablaze like fields of untouched cotton.
Through the gate, we watched the city
as it sank into the lake.

Climbing over and into the street and running,
out of breath, we arrived just in time
to see the people in doors and upon rooftops
look up from below, their shadows
jumping from their fingertips.
They faded away.

Behind us, you said that the skyscrapers
were still not gone.
In the distance, they stared at us,
bright lights in windows, and
dark figures with white eyes, beckoning.

I took your hand and begged you not to go.
That our world was gone, only us two
and the wire fence left behind as proof of existence.

You left anyway.

I watched as your bare feet touched down
upon the asphalt, progressively growing further away,
your back steadily disappearing until
I could look right through.

They embraced you,
took you away into the shadows.

And I stood at the end of that long lake road,
hoping that, if they came for me next,
in trade, the whole rest of the world
would be put back the way it was.