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I like to pretend
I no longer have a heart
but sometimes
I pull it out of the bottom drawer
and speak to it
just so it knows
that I know
its still there
and apologize
for all I have poured over it
to bury its existence
and all the times
I gave it to the undeserving
I make promises
that it will be freed again
someday
then safely tuck it away
and sneak back out of her house.
One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse,
        I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
It's getting harder to write.

Tears run down my face
As I stare at the blank paper
And realize that it's you.

It's getting harder to write.

This window of emptiness,
This episode of hollowness,
Is the result of you.

It's getting harder to write.

You triggered everything,
That has ever been wrong with me.
But I'm a great liar: "I'm fine."

**I lost my ability to write.
After months of being okay,
I relapsed
Because of you.
I can recognize the symbols now,
A God complex is simple thought.
A happy night.
A Saturday.
We're number three from Mother Sun.

Sister Nature is my father,
Brother Earth in animus.
Out of line,
Just out of spite.
A blackout can't account for this.

Taping up the horse's mouth,
Reality is not relieving.
If this was real
I wouldn't have to hold on like it's leaving.

Awoke but never fell asleep,
The endless sleep has found a stop.
I can be your cellophane,
If you'll be my Salem's Lot.


Avoid the windows,
Faith is burning.
Too alive,
And too unnerving.
the circles I live in.
Do you want to keep your tears?
No, I want them all out.
I'll keep them for you*

~Love
This is part of a conversation with my 8 year old son. One old soul recognizing another.
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