Sadly, I am null. I can see nothing but forest. Dense and thick as shadows in midnight lights. Can I still see them for what they are? What purpose do I, as a simple body, take from such feeling? I haven’t missed a beat. Never off of scale or rhythm long enough to catch the tempo. This is the feeling I can muster up after half a day. Like cream isn’t sweet enough for strong coffee. Or the rain doesn’t fall hard enough to break the ground. A mind can only hold a candle to the objects that surround it. But what prime can I count to that will get me closer. May I be able to count that high? Can someone such as me count on the speed of time to solve problems for me? This is only a simple thought or play in my book. I can sit for hours and count how many evil intentions I have passed. Every single human being cannot and will not comply. I think this is why we see evil as such. A good person can say a good person. But I don’t see this as solid as the sentence. A bad person can still be bad after a good thing. But a good person is holding true to good even after a bad thing? What bad measures does a good person have to do to be bad? What questions press against my forehead like rocks and soft sand. The amount of time I have placed on this plain can weight a mountain’s ton. We as people cannot feel a ton though. No human can lift it or experience the difficulty. So how do we know what it is? It is just a word and a number measuring what we as people cannot achieve. Sadly, this too is something a ponder about as I press on a mental quest. I sat in a chair long enough that my knees decided it was time to weaken. I have had this feeling before, but not with a good outcome. I begin to walk around the room as normal. No purpose of course, just as some track around the fake wooden furniture. I skim my hands across water swollen surfaces from missing costars and melted ice in glasses. I have to side step to get around stools and piles of sand from beach trips and communal drinking fits. I have had friends over of course, but none stayed too long so see this of me. I may not look like the type to keep a secret or thought to myself. I am more open the usual as of right now. I can chip away at a keyboard or book. I can perform mindless tasks better than the rest of the world. I can blend into the surface long enough to take a life-time of conversations in an hour’s time. I can walk outside and feel wind before it comes. When rain falls, my eyes begin to water at drops that weren’t from water. I think we as people haven’t understood each other enough. Maybe it’s a people thing to be so ignorant to this fact.

the walls of her fortress
dripping with sage
knowledge
centuries old
empty of rage

her gut, a tortured field
often ablaze
truth lies there
while battles were waged

kitchen of flowers
table a maze
lovers look across
not knowing each's gaze

moments of crime
passion betrayed
within the lives of the "normals"
they laughed as they lay
bedridden with ***, long slow daze

south fly the geese, crows never go away
the sparrow calls morning
the owl flies today
blocks of comfort, boxed and weighed.

The asking
is not where it's at
Back to the wall
waiting

It lights up
but
   shove it
           d
           o
           w
           n

They can live in your back pocket

the phone rings
and as always i recoil
my body not set to the ups and downs
of volume,
far more comfortable in the silence
and open space

i think of the x-acto knife at home
how it will shred through the layers of
paper like tissue

tissue like
skin
like tears
like my *******
like the soft space between my thighs

a collage though, put together and patched-up
perhaps i've forgotten those envied bits
long gone are the nights of lovers lying soundless
the room filled with the scent of lust
my tongue and mouth dry, lips cracked from kissing

a drawer full of clippings all ready and i'll glue
color and light, texture and contrast mean almost everything
maybe, mostly, wantonly
withdrawn and blindly i imagine the outline
the way the picture will move and i will be seen

a microscopic view at best, even from over there
turned away and forgotten, like the art of long ago
she once flew higher and faster
skies ahead shouting for her to catch up
days like raindrops splashing on the darkened blacktop
now it's more swamp below than land
footing uncertain and pain inflicted
hands ingrained, lashings she deserves

how to come so far and yet be stuck so violently to the web
spun around and around
blood dripping and draining
and the flies circle,
they wait aware of the unraveling of the fleshy pieces
wanting only the remains

she is a sinner, she repents
but the crime, what of it an whose crime is it really
does she walk with these painful heels or flutter off
reminded that time will heal what space has not already
years of distance and she becomes less human
less herself
less anyone
less