I'm afraid to be
In my house
I'm afraid to be
Out of it
Because there
Are knocks
On my door
When nobody's there

Because I hear people
Whispering in
My basement

And because if
I sleep
Too long
I know it's
Gunna come back

The world seeks out the youth in me
waiting to devour it eagerly
wanting to remember the flavor.
Lukewarm without seasoning,
consuming it---
first body, as sparse appetizer
then soul, as both dessert and entree.

Mistakes are used as marinade
drowned in salt and vinegar
the recipe of all humanity
before I am tenderized,
with each violent flash of the silver mallet.

Finally plated---
on the finest china
surrounded by soft flowing table cloth,
and folded napkin of regret.

Mind the spotless silverware
once cut, the juices begin to flow.
The menu is carried away
and the wine list is red.

I am revealed
then served with a green garnish;
under the nose of unforgiving critics
whose taste buds had withered long ago.

let me know
when you will go
as you take with you
everything even my soul

i search for my self
my eyes  will give
answer that it might go

the time will pass
the time comes
my watch annoys
as i look at times
she finally stops

my heart knocks
in spite of its knocks

the lamp is off
as the electricity was off
my brain was light
waiting her bright

If each and every grain were a
Year,
Than every knock would be an
Episode,
So came the story that is my
Door.

And,

One – was the loudest pound,
“Authority,”
When the P.D.’d nearly warped
Hinge,
So came my first night in the
Clink.

Two, three, and four – Love, only
Love,
And one of two later;
SLAM!
Or one silent escape, fled and
Sundered.

Five – was the knock that never came.

Six – “tap, tap, tap,”
Mom,
It must have been my mom, or rather,
Obligation
And she’d swear to my sisters, “he’s
Ok.”

Seven, eight, and nine – Deliveries,
Disguise,
Pizza, Chinese, pizza and not so
Famished
Anymore; fuel for the guts, guzzle for the
Words.

Ten – came a' “gamechanger,”
Tear-smeared-mascara,
And two hands atop your
Abdomen;
I knew atop the water your freckles,
You’d never need knock again.

So if each and every grain were a
Year,
Than every knock would be an
Episode,
And this would be the story, that’d ever
Be our door.