The scholars say;
all scorched green land
soon grows back
twice as grand.
Well if thats the truth of it
my lover foiled her own ****** plan
it just takes a little rain
on a red-dawn day
to sprout into the fray again.

All fickle friends decay
when the shot at redemption
is just a days grace away
they leave behind what should be said
within the prisons inside their heads

The manic depressive
does not believe
in the holy-light of love
if his brain can not conceive
but each day that he survives
is one day closer
to what his heart contrives

The proud atheist derides
with a rational mind
all priests demise,
but my dear friend,
if you think that silence
is waiting around the bend,
you will soon contend
that dark, stark trend
when your mind lends
all futile shields to fend.
You’ll see your spite
split betwixt delight
that which all knowing monks commend
and which your soul will soon amend;
that Death is not the end

Once again
I looked into her eyes
and I fell in love.

I fell for her cruelty,
I fell for her violence,
I fell for her coldness,
I fell for her essence.

She knows me so well,
she has me so close.
She ties me up,
but she never hold me.

Across the people
she walks relaxed,
everyone knows her,
but nobody evokes her.

She is very distant,
but she always gives me a way out.
She just wants
to feel alive.

I've been a combination
of many things:

Window slats
& Roman numerals

Door knobs
& swimming pools

Bulletproof glass
& Magic Wand Massagers

Bird droppings
& ruffled feathers

The beginnings of a migraine
& a burst of birdsong

Alas!
My heart was never into it

Not one could return me
To sinus rhythm

She dreams of the ideal man,
   but the suitor idolizes death in his soulful slumber.
She takes care of herself,
   though she cannot bestow her beauty to impressionists.
She falls in love,
   yet her delusional passions seethe her in disarray.
She finds new friends,
   but a ******* of overzealous poison tarnishes the relationship.
She cooks for more than one;
   ghosts accompany the reserved empty chairs.
She re-models her home,
   driven to impress; however, she is the only one impressed.
She longs for attention,
   craving for a taste of wanting to be loved.
She is she,
   and she is her own canvas.

I was told that some people
are born to be leaders,
and other people
are born to be followers.

my depression has sent me
on a downward spiral,
and I know that
I can't stay strong forever.
I won't stand tall forever.

am I a leader?
when I fall, will I take
anyone else down with me?

or am I a follower?
will I fall because I let
someone drag me down?

and if I don't want
to be either of those,
then who do I want to be?

A questionnaire of my family history is only a monologue I tell myself.
Practicing in front of the mirror to get better.
So, the next time the doctor’s words I am sorry falls back into their lips.
& I am onto my feet.
A vapid, monologue screenplay.
The rehearsed version of my life.
Answering the questions.
Somehow still fumbling through the words.
Yet leaving voids in my answers as my family’s members absence did.
Mother?
Two strokes. She’s alive but not apparent enough to know it.
Her blood runs too thick.
Blood pressure always boiling.
Mother knew how to live fast but never well enough.
Father?
Dead. He was alive but never long enough to hold it.
Heart always dropping and head into the palms of his hands.
Thirst never stopping.
Alcoholism is a wicked thing I say.
Siblings?
Brother. Alive somehow not present enough to count it.
Healthy. We count his days as tick-tack-toe though.
Family history has a lineage that says the roots in this family tree are rotten.
Sister. Victim to mental health.
The prodigy of a broken foster system.
I reckon her days are counted in lines.
Between days she’s alive & the days she wishes she wasn’t.
The doctor does an homage in the way she bows her head.
Makes the hollowed-out chest of mine seem like it’s filled with water.
I let out a gasp.
Trying to fill the room where all the air has seemed to have evaporated.
Hoping to catch my breath.
My story filling their break room like a lingering coffee smell.
Keeping them brewed in satisfaction that it could always be worse.
My story always seemed like the punch line for better days.
Our family has been waiting since genesis for such.
These are the days I wish I believed in something.
A god to drown every nightfall with dawn.

act happily
& smile nonstop
keep the tone steady
& don't let the façade drop
keep it going
even just for a few days
& on the 7th evening,
go to a secluded place
take a small ladder
along with a knotted rope
tie it on the bar
& don't forget your note
dress cleanly
to make sure everything's good
& never say goodbye
to be misunderstood