The feeling that you get when your about to lose control, has to be the scariest feeling of all. When too many absentminded people come in and break everything apart- without realizing it- electrify the band that's about to snap. And that's the worst of all. When you have to sit there watch how these people that live around you make countless mistakes. They sit in a pit of oblivion, but you see it all. And when you go off to make one silly mistake, all the walls come crashing down and suddenly your the one who is the burden. These exact people tell you how to live. They tell you that you don't understand time. That your feelings to have no logical sense to them. That your heart is in the wrong place.
Who are they to say that? Who are they to suddenly become you?
Who are they to act like they care?
You can see disappointment in their faces and you have the guts to believe it. Their  hosts have become clay sculptures- unmendable. Made to dry up and become nothing but a piece on a shelf.
It takes everything within you to not become that.
But it's okay.
Because at least your the only one out of all of them that knows what it takes to live.

Step with me, my friend
Behind the beating fast fall of water unending.
Here we are now,
Two souls in the echoing space
Between solid rock and falling curtain of water.
Hush now...
Do you feel the pulse
Of the Earth's flowing veins,
Coagulating with your own?
Listen....
Do you hear the murmur
Of forgotten voices
Kept in memory of stone walls
Surrounding us here?
They sing to you,
To me,
To whomever has the ears to listen,
Of moss and wheat meadows
The green blades dripping blood,
Spicy and cruel crimson in the sun.
Songs of deep sorrows unmendable,
Leaving the beating heart
Cold and transparent.
Songs of love,
Love felt to consume the mind,
Uniting lovers
A million in number,
Sharing passions unspoke of.
Listen.....
Here we are now,
Two souls in the echoing space
Between solid rock and falling curtain of water,
Listen......

I find I am hollow
Empty
Serene in the silence
Alone
My feet soundless, swift
My face unmemorable
My hand shook by men of passionate deceit
And I find myself filled with their purpose

Purpose of others drives me
Craving no prize, praising no God
Only me
Only violence
Soul pushed to the cages in the back of me
My body is honed
My weapon part of me

I fly but no wind follows
I break the unmendable
Harbinger of silence
Deliverer of death
Revealer of mortality
Ender
Money and treasure for blood and breath
Unrelenting, unavoidable

Hands choking pulse from veins
Slowing
Necks crack as they swing out of place
Breaking
Gun hot from parting lead bullet
Body heavy as it drops
Death will come swiftly to any, to all
Until I am emptied once more

some say she was born with a broken heart,
unmendable by word or deed, and now armed
with a quiver full of witticisms and deft vertical
palm, friends, lovers, the world, all held at bay,
lest they discover her sorrow

I look through the window and saw nothing
What I used to see was the world as it was, free.
The bleeding of the heart, wanting..desiring.
Through the horrid abuse-screams and confusion echoed.
Left standing defenseless, shadows choked me 'till I was senseless.
Lied to self, preaching that I was strong, but it fact I was wrong.
My insecure reflection shows the pecking tension
Rage is no longer bound in a cage.
Vengeance-in a sea of despair, awoken
Forever broken
Delicate ceramic figurines shattered, blood is splattered.
Dimming of glee, waltz into the darkness
Here's your token into the window,
whom's frame remains cracked and unmendable

Just a little girl in a polka-dot skirt,
With her glass doll under her arm,
Just a little girl filled with too much hurt,
Can a dream shield her from more harm?
A fragile doll for fragile play
In the hands of a fragile girl,
A broken dream to rot away,
Among her bows and curls
She’s reached out towards the stars,
But the doll falls to the ground,
She’s reached out much too far,
A cry out, an empty sound.
She picks up the pieces of her doll,
The broken remnants of a smile,
She could have prevented the fatal fall,
But she failed the fateful trial.
Together again, but no longer decor,
Scars line where it has broken,
Unmendable but whole once more,
A painful memory, her token.
Just a little girl in a polka-dot skirt,
With her glass doll inside her arms,
Just a little girl filled with too much hurt,
And a dream that did its harm.

Which is it: you can't get started unless
you're riding some current bigger than your reporting voice
or the best time to write is when you don't have much to say
and without plenty to say about everything you'll get better right
      away.

Form is very often a betrayal of reality.
Although we are initially drawn to poems by their passion and
      urgency,
we are convinced by the formal means invented
for their impelling motives. Every accidental crack or dent.


Not just mildly disquieted but actively repelled,
running for the River Styx, the doors of Hell pell mell,
there must be a crack, deep and unmendable, in the poet
that the poet must forever try to mend. Or not.

While mortal poets imitate, immortal poets steal.
That's plagiarism. Fortunately the public feels
less strongly about poetry than television,
communism and aging gracefully through meditation.

Now I'm being silly. My silly indefatigable lusting,
silly sadness, silly arguing and silly trusting.
All I do not know about our nation's history, wars
and what showering the people you love with love does.

Ransacking apothegms, algorithms
and selling the loot as memes,
dissemblings. Bearing fardels
with the warrior's skull.