It's a ridiculous cliche but, ******* it, your eyes...
Forgive me if I don't always make eye contact,
Or look away too soon.  I'm listening. I swear it.
I'm afraid you might think that I'm full of myself,
Or afraid you might think that I've no self-esteem.
The truth is much simpler than either extreme.
The truth is I'm somewhere right in between.
but still:
Twin seas draw my stare and I fear what I'll say.
Fear falling into their unlit depths, where even my silence could betray.
The source to illuminate and fuel our lives' desires,
Find it in her hands , her touch,
Find it in her eyes.
Her eyes of ocean depth see me,
Giving no safe place to hide,
Searching bad cliches for the light, the otherness inside.
But what if all of my words are wrong?
What if they drive you away?
What if the light between oceans is mute?
Insufficient to make you stay?

I sat outside on the dock,
took in the aroma of the fresh sea air.
I felt as if the water was hugging me and embracing my loneliness.
I just sat there, listening for something, anything, just a sign that I won't be isolated forever.
I closed my eyes and pictured happiness.
What a cliché. What the **** is happiness anyways?
I guess I have to face reality, the scary and horrendous thing that is inevitably my life.
What escape do I yearn to achieve you ask?
It's rather simple actually.
Ultimate freedom
The freedom to, and the freedom from.

Speckling drops, of bathwater- lovely evening rain.
Patter melodically against
my open window frame.
The  water touches me not,
for my roof with gutters and onings.
But the dewy breeze saturates my room
like my face to an ocean breeze.
Mother Waters, send her daughters
to my window this spring night singing.
Distant puddle patterning ploops,
diameters mass expanses on the suburban streets.
The trees, the smile as they absorb the
moisture their brittle bones need.
Oh how I pitied the trees,
when the cold stripped and broke their branches
my heart grew sorrowful & weak.
The deserve to be enveloped, by this
unplanned storm.
All in the world, would agree when I say
that we are blessed
with this warm April rain

she colored space-time
into her hair
using only a paintbrush and patience
strand by strand she formed it:
the glistening planets and stars that are
of her own mind
neurons shooting like rockets
envisioning the galaxies that, built from her hands,
exploded from nothing into everything,
tangible but free, whispering red gold light

she wrote out the oceans
using her hands
lakes rivers and streams, and the lands along the edges
word by word she poured it:
the life of each puddle turned into clay creatures
that breathed reality
existing like trees on the vast new savannas
living freedom that, carved from her fingertips,
developed happiness and sorrow,
careful but real, eating their new knowledge

she gave birth to gods
from her parted lips
speaking out deities and auras
making the small assertion:
that life came from her and all things by her
but the life she loves had long since forgotten
the green of her eyes
and the red rock of her skin,
her writings and whispers
floating throughout the summer smog
so she roared in the thunder and the rushing waves
for her children and worlds to listen
but they could no longer hear, and she was left
lost and awaiting, wrapped
in her own space-time hair

I focus on your eyes
those two deep blue oceans
and wonder why you wave over me
yes, it's true that I'm imperfect
but are you any better?

You can't feed me servings of silence
like an unsolved piece of a puzzle
please move your stiff ghost occasionally
let it consume something other than
your tortured, self-consumed mind.

These walls keep you from leaving my sight,
yet why are they the closest from tumbling down?

Only prayers keep me sane anymore.
                             ...
Resting my eyes as you call out my name
you whisper it to the shadows within the clouds
but only because it's forever the name of a stranger.