Sometimes when I love, I am called hate.
Sometimes the only part that gets through in my words is the surgical knife of reason, the steel chill of logic.
And this I take only part of the blame for,
part of the responsibility,
For it is not my heart that lacks empathy, that is void of patience and soft words, that is made of spears, that has no arms to embrace with, no eyes to cry with, no ears to hear.
It is not my heart that is deformed, it is not born void of understanding or ignorant of human suffering.
It is not my heart that has no love, but it is a torn and weary love when it reaches some souls.
It is drowned lungs that gasp out between the trigger warnings and the comment sections
It is an act of survival that grows spears against the onslaught of accusations, a hoarse voice that is left after trying to speak over the howling wind of fear, or hatred, or ignorance
It is arms broken and ears deafened by the weight of propaganda, eyes dried by the desert minds of a thousand thoughtless voices
It is a heart torn heartless as it carries and shelters the bird of truth, a pale dove at the start
now become an eagle with an iron beak and fire-eyes and
bursting out of the rags of a shredded ***** with fury and sorrow over it's devoured host,
it's scree a war cry to those who do not know its story
who do not know it once came with a heart
who do not know they are the reason it flies, without the tempering furnace of a healthy heart,
from my mouth
from my pen
from the remnants that are reason, logic...
these are the last vestiges I have of that love
I hoped to bring to you,
the last ounces of a mostly-spilled cup.

This is the color of my walls at eight am
a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet.
“Just say they’re yellow,” I am told.
Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.

This is the color of my walls at midnight
a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes.
“They’re not red,” I am told, again.
How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.

This is the color of my walls at eleven am
a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers.
“No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told.
I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.

This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm
just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving.
“The walls are dead,” I am told.
But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.

This is the color of my walls at this time
maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing
“Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told.
Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.

My mind is a trick-seed sprouting in me
Runners wide run in rich but shallow soil
Each birthing things that were not meant to be
Deserted, parched they die as I recoil
A false womb am I and guilty tears shed
Over false dreams buried in open graves
Who will come to avenge the wanton dead
The miscarriages flow in scarlet waves
‘Had you but fed us,’ each cries out, ‘you could
Now reap.’ As weeds they rise from their dark holes
And invading, choking out new crops would
Paralyze this befuddled, barren soul
Who can supplant the worming roots, their cry
And fate other than death my dreams supply?

When did poems begin to start with
I
When did
I
Become the beginning and the end
I
It calls and woos and beckons like no
You
Could do. The lights dim in
You
And a mirror becomes the inspiration for
I
The winds that carried these words to
You
Now swirl and suffocate, declaring and blaring that
I
Am strong, am somehow alive and
I
Is as far as the mind can see, but
I
Might be the end of
We

What good does knowing do
When ghosts come prowling after you
When ears are doors without a key
And blind eyes think that they can see

It's like standing all alone
Sitting on an empty throne
An hour turns into a year
And moments slip past you in fear

Empty bottles tell the tale
Of demons trying to set sail
And when your soul is wearing thin
They'll come around and push you in

Now you've fallen on your knee
Begging for Someone to see
That you still have lights inside your eye
And you know some things never die
That some things just keep living on
After all the pain is gone
That Love is not the same as lust
And human flesh will turn to dust
And knowing will not be so rough
When the ghosts have had enough
And now as you let yourself go
You know something they don't know:
Allowing yourself to be drowned
Is the only way of being found
Breath is just a tiny part
Of living lost inside a Heart

It's like floating on a cloud
Looking back down at the crowd
You know you can't help them now
They never tried to learn how
To open up their hearts and fly
All they know is how to die

And living is a dangling noose
When hope is low and faith is loose
When ears are doors without a key
And blind eyes think that they can see
But Love is not the same as lust
And human flesh will turn to dust
But some things will keep living on,
After all the pain is gone

The girl is silent
And there’re angels crying
Someone down below
Is singing
And a stone nearby
Is sadly smiling
Calling out “Peace!”
For another wearied traveller

There's a cross above, beside, below my bed
The splinters get stuck in my head
If I could get them out and in a row
I'd build a boat with them and catch the flow
Make sails from the pages that I've read
Then wings for when the world ends
But the words are wrapped around the wood
Though I would free them, if I could