the tip of my pen
hot, most likely from its placement
beside the laptop, but not.
a drawer full, who does that?
either way, whether the pen's fire is the result
of the machine's heat or the force to which the words
push down against me
pressing against a pink-lined page,
maybe i'll never know.

morning crawled in
there i was stepping into the onyx dawn
long before it called its light.
the earth's face inklike, spider webs
catching at my cheeks. already at work
keeping things together and letting them
fall apart, jokingly balancing life.

the water warm as my fingers crawled against the surface
frogs sharing their swim with the near full moon
me sharing my disgust with the night insects,
my eyes stretching between the here and now
while awaiting a joyous tone. strange sunday
i laugh reminding myself of my lonesomeness
and of the dawn's curse.

with little worry the pen dries, its ball point tired
sunlight showers the tile in iridescent light and my face,
well it's awash. maybe the days when my pen was cold
i was to learn? patience, not always ready to pour-
but i've been restrained and that pen has been kind.

don't pull at my words
because they're meaningless
shells of ghosts and spirits
my heart is a wasteland
and it's unkempt and unsafe
the vines that live there have started
they choke the light out and i'm blinded
but what do you expect of a girl without eyes
so far-sighted that the present is always the
hardest sell
and a blink, that's all it takes
and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn
the safest of strategies really, because
these notions of silly lag, i don't subscribe
and you do
but i am not there and i cannot be that kind
i am from another time and place
and my fear doesn't exist in the realms of others
untethered and most shirk because i know my mind
the cost of resolution, millions and who's prepared
for that black tuesday
a depression filled with numbers and figures
because that's the best way to work it out
to walk over the mountain with pen in hand
holding the paper at its highest
no one trailing, and certainly no leader
scent and feeling my guide, and it's off, always
the forest not always kind to the dweller
the trees losing their foliage and it's drowning me
and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago
when i died-when i folded, because that was best
then, but that's what the brave one does, folds and ties
the string
suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen
and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel
the
sun on exposed wounds
blankets caskets of sorts
breathing from below a clotted dirt cage
and whose lungs can do that
what kind of filtration provides light when there's so
much
mud
the easy answer, none. there isn't one-it's best to make
one
it's best to start again, to keep going, the mountain's peak
miles away, maybe never to be reached
and maybe that's the point, because there's no up, there's
no down
it's just this, the trek through miles of useless wood
my feet caught up on blackberry brambles
and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless
as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off
when the sun pokes harder
i am weak and i know this
my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry
an endless cloud of haziness that's only settled
when altered, so who's to blame
for self-inflicted wounds and piercings
take ownership i say and blame myself
knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart
are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal
repayment for my own infliction upon others
basic notations, because when i'm not good enough
nothing ever is, and it doesn't matter
stay away from the flock, create the rules, do as i please
those that push back still will, they'll shunt my light
they'll remind me of why i tunneled away
seeking safety-and i'll retreat, as is form and expected
always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being
hurt
and it's easier to swallow that elephant whole
to take on the blame, to blame myself
the constant knowing
and the desperate feeding of a monster
that will die in the dark

the heat and i'm
sat out on the front porch.
night's still a few choruses away
and the shade's settling in
cooling things down and
bringing comfort in like it's a cool bed sheet.

my head, a mess lately and i wonder
is this the block i feared, silence internally
my writer's fingers frozen solid and nothing spilling?

it's not though, i know this. those words that breathe
inside
the ones that cover page after page and course like heat.
their there...shifting like clothes inside of a tumbled
dryer
reforming and preparing for a new season.

and i laugh, because what is this, if not the product
of such a block?
the backpedaling that plagues the silenced mind
and i am set to cast suspicion and doubt on an unruly
source.

this silly head of mine
the summer coming like
a train tearing for the mountains of the
west.
i am lost inside, and it is beautiful.
in the back room there is a flower
and i keep watering it
the summer air seems to be
teasing its blooms, i am in awe.
my heart, still burdensome at times
seems to have forgotten tears for now
and i flinch.
how long can this well stay dry? it's not like
that here on the coast of demise.
and yet, it is.
but i hate this poem, because it's a lie
it's all metaphor and beauty
when inside there's far more
and far less.
my heart is pounding most days
and i wonder if insanity can be far behind.
who said anything about only writing pretty things?
or not splitting those that are in half?
when i wake up, as of late, i am not so much tired
as tired. life has a way of straining my brain
and it is a rare thing to be able to say that, to admit it
to be seen inside of it, and yet i have been, i think, i
am.
i am frightened lately because of the current reality,
because
i don't have power, because i have no desire to control
or manipulate,
because it's not a game.
i feel willing to let the universe work things out, but
how i hope it does it
in a pleasing manner. my heart tied in a bow to a
thread that feeds across
space and connects elsewhere.
bringing me back to the summer air
to the rain collecting in pools outside
my window thrown open, the dawn air
heavy and littered with sound.
my own ears collecting the songs
of a lover gone broken.

sitting in a lull
the dawn ages away, when
suddenly eyes
are upon me.
my terror, instinctive;
my urge to fight back,
just as much so
and quickly taking
over.
escaped though, and
i am left
adrenaline coursing
an added ingredient to
a heady mix
already coursing.
secondary shut down,
and the gates close-
future release denied
suspension of
grief receptacle,
dislodged.
flashback and
the inevitable realization.
mind over matter, every time,
here, take this.
its shape,
****** and shifting.
make it right;
use that rush.
and the environment?
succumbs, and i
whimper
instead of bark, as is
form.
well done, good girl.

we drank and smiled
pull a card, see what you hit.
hesitation in my eyes, as is usual
because there's this risk, exposure, disclosure
the fatal flaw that will give them a tool
to see inside.
this little game is nothing new
and i've long been a mystery, unwilling
to shed my lizard skin
but to sit here, exposed in an open bar,
inside, no escape. what could i do?
pulling the card was easy, my method
tried and true; shuffle, break, shuffle, draw.
the coincidence of the draw, disarming.
a double-whammy, it's the same card
and
i am numbed.
well? they demand.
rumbling around inside
i reach, the meaning not lost.
the words become hot tears in my mouth
and i read. my apologies for the emotions
foretold and forgiven it's okay
but no it's not. strength does not come
when you cry from the bench.
when my knees bled, isn't that how it happened?
those experiences, did they not strengthen me, but maybe not-maybe just the opposite.
normalize it and we can move forward, but reach first
cover your eyes, while you demand this from others.
disarming and alarmed i struggle for composure.
quickly the moment is lost, unsure of how or who is to
thank, and even now i can't recall
silence maybe? or was it the arrival of the check?
my punishment, a realization
one that cannot be silenced;
it's in the weakness that the
strength forms, in the stone's willingness
to be tossed about with little direction
unknown where it is to land and just
getting polished and ready along the way.

it is an ocean
having brushed the coasts
and cliffs of foreign lands,
its tongue
and lips brushing their
seductive sand and stone.

it is a sigh
let loose on a sugary
beach, its toes
sandy and caked,
high.

it is a bite
upon time's ankle
memory and detail
its form taking shape
and color.

it is a stone
cast at a mountain's edge
epoch battered
shed of itself.

it is a cactus
poking and invading
bodies of those who dare
its armor thick
and painful.

and yet, its
struggle a haphazard journey
through the elements

and again, despite;

it is a soft-petaled flower
its opening slow and deliberate
its awakening responsive
its showy hues dancing
and falling aside.