I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

Looking at the mirror, I don't see myself
Lately been wanting to be someone else
Lately been feeling like I'm not enough
Hoping that someone can see through my bluff
Hoping someone sees that my life has been rough
Hoping that people see I'm not that tough!

I've been fake so long, I don't know what's real
Trying to say a word but I can't break that seal
People keep depending on me, they see me as a light
Little do they know, I lose sanity every night
Little do they know, I'm starting to lose this fight
I'll keep smiling on, and pretend I'm not hurt by the pressure
I'll keep holding on, take a break man I need a refresher

I'll keep high, making sure that my poise never falters
I'll speak from my mind, making sure that my words never flutter

...who am I?

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

I am at a crescendo of this mercurially
fervent woe, maimed by the visage of
smoke and mirrors;
"a death in chrysalis is to live once again."

Draping into the worn out disheveled
silk, beautifully withered
lulled by the sound of riverbanks
as if it's pacifying the feral.

A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss
rose with thorn-teared flesh
overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, it will never be the same.

weaving
in and out of short pines
a fly travels to the top of a mountain

while I stand in my underwear
and the incandescent

staring into a mirror, into a mirror
and on
as we all have.

There are some days
I think to myself
I am beautiful

But most days I can't
Sometimes I catch
Just a glimpse

In the mirror is the girl
She is the one
I wish I could be always

She is graceful
She is beautiful
She is everything I want to be

I cannot look again
If I do I won't see her
I will only see me

It's disappointing
I can only see her
Just the single time

These days I don't
I no longer see her
I am no longer beautiful