Why is it, that no one sees what he says is true?
Why is it, that they do not feel a moment of the truth?

What is it they say?
Once a cheater, always a cheater.

What is it they believe?
Sometimes, maybe the twister has a moment bereave?

Why is it that he who defends her, is the one accused?
Why is it that when she's at fault, he the one who's bruised?

Why is it that he loves her so much?

Why is it, that she's never enough?

To some she is a shining light
A flash of hope amongst the dark
An optimistic helping hand
To pull you from the dark
And cheer your sorrow

To some she is a black hole
Pulling the world down with sadness
Reliving the past that broke her
And stabbing others with the shards

To some she is simple words
plastered on a white canvas painting a picture.
never more
but never less

To most she is unnoticeable
A tiny footnote scribbled in the corner of a forgotten notebook
A wall flower whose thorns push away all but those with the key to her locked heart.

When you ask me what she is
The answer is impossible
Because I don't know

But I can tell you what she's not

She is not a beautiful face, to stop you in a crowd

She is not a chatting girl to talk you into a date

She is not a innocent flower
Welcoming with open arms

She is not a genius to create the next invention

She is not a musician, an author, a designer, a star, a doctor, or a hero

She is not a loving companion for you to hold, and remember your every need

She is not a great friend, always there in a flash.

She is not a friendly person, starting up the conversation

She is not a good cook, making meals that are edible

She is not an unscarred girl, unscathed by the past

She is not a beautiful figure
That draws your eyes

She is not hilariously funny
Ready for stand up comedy

She is not someone to remember though she will remember you

However she is not fazed by judges
Changing ways to suit them

She is not perfect

She is not stopped by her imperfections, only pressed farther to become something more.

And though I can not say who she is or what she will be. Here's what I can say

To me she will always be the girl staring back in the mirror.

The Sun became a quill in a sky blue scroll.
One foot in the tangible as worlds unfold.
Birds and insects take flight to declare
there is purpose in the solitude that heralds our despair.

As a shipwrecked sparrow hollers from a tree -
"I am only just a body! What could be inside of me?!"

But then his unseen counselor that has a thousand voices reveals itself as a shelter in the storms of past choices.

The timeless wearing the fleshy mask of the timebound.
A gargoyle delighted in the facade.

No one thinks enough of fantasy to see the clues so well-placed.
--
And where we used to soar with purpose,
now we simply stand in place.
--
Demonstrating mortality, see it written on the face
of collective consciousness; is it stubborn to embrace?

Presently I'm chasing presence.
With both legs tied with guilty ropes.
Through the suffering, the shadow of our true selves revolts.

I am not I.
Or at least not as I.
Would think it.

On an angry sea
with sails getting more
USELESS!
TORN!
by the second, it seems!

Your image a mermaid
God bless the shore
and the scenes that live on
in the depths of our dreams.

DOWN WITH THE SHIP!
said the Captain, at once.
DOWN WITH THIS VESSEL TO THE BOTTOM, I'LL GO.
but he was the sea, the storm, the ship.
he was everything and nothing, he just didn't know.

I used to seek in daylight, in the obvious, the clear.
As if lifetimes were re-written in my twenty-something years.
Knowing well what's worth finding must be hidden, must be kept
in shadows - or illusions - or dark devices of our debt.
One life altered by a thousand half-deaths:
mere moments of enlightenment that fuel the self-impressed.
Only fools could stay with certainty but not help clean up the mess.
That's why I wrestle with my restlessness and blessings that manifest.

A sour grape makes for a wine still lacking.
Because an imperfect body bruises a soul without remorse.
In your skin like a child under his blanket in fear of a house cracking.
When it falls apart you'll realize, it was never really yours.

The stars show favor but the fever withstands.
I laugh at who I was, so in need of proof.
Taking swings at the past with invisible hands.
The mouth of your glass holding circular truth.
What can be said for our best-laid plans?
We were widowed by the paradigm of intimacy, too.
Outside of your window chuckin' rocks like David
(only, the Philistine was love and the weapon was you).

The first two bricks that made this building
appeared strong at first but collapsed when a rogue wind blew;
became the same two cents that were tossed by children
into a fountain then forgotten - oh, the recklessness of youth!

And like a turtle on its back.
Or a dog trapped in a burning skyscraper.
Or a crab caught in a fisherman's net.
This body is a shell for a thing I've not yet met.