It comes in the morning, now -
That heavy vapor of gloom
That spreads like water-soaked ink
That stirs the gut to quiver.
Once a night traveler
Content to sit on my lungs
and whisper toxic reminders
of mortality,
This demon endemic to life
has taken a new schedule,
and with it, a new voice,
and new pairs of woes and clothes.
It reminds me, now,
of my world like molasses,
jolly people I have been,
and joy I've destroyed,
tempting me with a heart of ice
I could use to replace my own,
and make this song go away.
It is my job then, to refuse.
"No."
I must climb out of bed
And wield a sword of summer
For one more day.

I keep creating
impossible lists
to save myself
from listlessness,
of books to read
and things to do,
for I know the only
way out is through.

It must be maddening,
if not terrifying,
to be loved by me.
Attempts to temper me are useless,
For I can only love with flames
burning hot, bright, and white
like dazzling stars,
until smouldering embers
ignite everything I hold dear,
leaving brittle, black scars in my wake.
Even now, as the dreams I clutched too closely crackle and crumble,
my cheeks burn,
flushed with embarrassment and anguish,
and the grieving pouring down them is so hot, they could boil and steam.
My stomach churns with heat,
and I am a dragon heaving forth hell.
I am too impetuous, impatient, imprudent,
a relentless, tempestuous firestorm.
I am too many words too quickly,
A meteor shower of poetry and regret.

I have woken up too early
For a sun that will not rise
And my dreams have flown with moonlight
Leaving cold and clouded skies.
But maybe next breath,
Next hour,
Next sun,
Or next moon
I'll be warm?
I must hope that I will.

I'm supposed to pretend that I don't hear
Sobbing and swearing in the next room.
I usually turn to my ear-buds,
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Ke$ha...
But my playlists,
So carefully crafted
from dreams and moonbeams,
are now mine fields -
Nearly unnavigatable
Without triggering an explosion
Of him.

I think, perhaps,
That vulnerability and wit,
(the aims of this challenge),
have sufficiently sharpened my words -
and judging by the slice of life
that I have served,
and how my exposed outlet
now needs tourniqueting,
I think, perhaps,
It is the swordsmanship
That I must now practice.
I am no devotee
of the church of restraint,
But I think, perhaps,
That there are limits
on how much you can bleed
before running dry
or drowning others.

I still need the occasional jolt -
a pinch -
a reality check -
to wake me
from the dreaming world
of long-held hopes,
suddenly manifested.
I try writing it all down
and replaying all that I remember -
Revelations, hands, scents, astral bodies -
and I just fall deeper
into the unreal.
So for now
(absent that jolt)
I'll make do
with the occasional buzz
from my pocket.