You can hide
All your pain
Behind a smiling mask

But you still have
A breaking point

When it's reached
A thousand masks aren't enough
To hide your tears

"That's it! I'll take it to the scissors myself!"
Mangled, wrangled, tangled mess,
meandering tendrils coil and cross, clump.

Split ends,
knots so impossibly tied the eagle scout is left bewildered,
sun damage: fried, frizzled, frazzled, frayed.

Broken teeth in a gasping comb,
choking brushes enveloped in the furling mess,
hairspray, fruitless, face it:
(Another) Bad Hair Day.

"That's it! Today's the day!"
The call is made, the appointment scheduled,
you sit and wait.

X's mark the calendar, the day is nigh,
your do's judgement day is at hand.
It's time to settle this.

The day before, you wake up,
absentmindedly getting dressed, drudging through routine,
mirror's the last thing you see.

Crusty eyes suddenly open wide,
as split ends seal and knots unfurl,
sun damage heals and combs sing ceaselessly.

The day is met with a new life,
and the dark days of yore seem like a past life,
as this sunny day seems like all there is.

You laugh at what now appears to be such trivialities,
"Twas a bad hair day! And merely so!"
You allow yourself such a shallow deception.

Your hand grabs the phone, your fingers make the call,
your voice makes the cancellation--
"How could I have been so foolish to resort to such measures?!"

You hang up and scoff at yourself,
a hearty laugh in jest at such hastiness,
tossing and swishing your luscious mane to and fro.

You allow it to slip through your fingers,
on the cusp of the cure,
as the bad hair days truly outnumber the good (you know it to be so).

For the next day will come--
You'll greet the mirror with that heart-wrenching sigh,
in visible anguish at the chaotic mess that encroaches upon your head.

          Don't let a good hair day fool you;
                                                        make the call.

Sometimes I dream at night
I think
Of things I cannot see
Of things I cannot feel
When my voice has left me
And all I can do is
Watch
Observe the horrors
Reach
But my arms won't move
Cry
But no sound can be heard
And the tears don't form
Not till I wake up
Drenched
But for what reason?
Shaking
But what fear is there?
As I roam the halls
It plays through my head
Like a distant
Memory
That isn't real
And the lines become blurred
Between my reality and
Dreams

I would love to fly
   -- and form my own figured cloud
I would love to swim
  -- and rest under the seabed
I would love to fall
  -- and be burnt beneath the atmosphere
I would love to wander
  -- and pick every stone along the street
I would love to long
  -- and live beyond reach

I wish I hope I could,
But I rather love to be with you through these adventures.

Or I would love to love you
Beyond else and beyond reach.