The tragedy is being human is that we bring our pain everywhere we go.
We bury our skeletons alive in hopes that no one will ever know.

I met a man who claimed him and I came from the same home,
I told him I've never been.

he didn't understand my disconnected nostalgia,
Instead he trusted place and time.
I guess he hasn't had much experience with drafty windows or closed mouths.

I tried to explain to him, home is where you hide your skeletons,
and I've used people and words as closet doors,
when that didn't work I buried them in shallow graves under my skin.

he said he noticed the bones sticking out of my body and I told him,
my search for home as left me starving and unstable,

that after a lifetime of asking for directions
to churches and cemeteries,
I've become envious of comfortable beds and worn-in floor boards.

those skeletons you sleep with
are all half alive
but you've still got that half dead
look in your eyes
those skeletons you sleep with
aren't the type you can hide.

the scars on my wrist don't mean i wanted death, you see.
it just means this life wasn't quite bright enough for me.

We are all fallible because we are all human.
There isn't a soul on this earth exempt from
hanging a skeleton of ignorance somewhere
in life's hidden closet.

A big, brawny bag of bones dumped atop our
fragile heart spaces, in order to quiet those nagging,
screaming egos.

Sharp elbows and boney shoulders
forcing us to truly taste the soured-sweetness of humility,
and humbly drink it down.

Peace is found in our common flaws - our shared ability
to be so **** cruel, cheap, manipulative, scared, loud and wrong.
What hurts you hurts me,
we are all connected through that which
we've decided separates us.

We are not perfect. We've all really messed up.
Sometime, somewhere we've caused pain to ourselves
by inflicting pain onto others,
and vice-versa.

It's within the murky kaleidoscope of messiness that
we find proof of our connectedness, our mutli-colored similarities,
our twin tattooed scars of wisdom reminding us of our divinity,
in the wake of this endless slumber.

We must embrace our skeletons, transform them,
set them free....
For they are our greatest teachers
holding up a mirror to our souls and reflecting
all of humanity back at us,
revealing the brightest darkness we've ever seen.

Her fingers cracked and bleeding,
Lead glued under brow, under hum,
And below the sweet Tian He smog,
So rests my grandmother.
She’s gently handing out hope,
Even more, stale and day old bread,

Hidden ‘neath twitch, ‘twixt grief;
Abandoned were the meals, the bed,
And bath, so that the others may eat.
It’s in the shadows I shuffle, dependent,
With a paper-bag to my left and
Other, my better, to the right,

Whilst we wish the silent skeleton,
Pale and fervent, my grandmother,
Some peace, some bread, two smiles,
And but one star, if only one
For her to wish upon, and one more,
If only to grant her ample and every desire.

lately, my answer to anything just seems to be

“i don’t know”

and when i reach out to the mirror,

my hands goes through and i can’t feel the person on the other side,

as if the twenty years or so that i survived

don’t mean anything to Reality.

and i want to fight back, you know

fight for my place, for my heartbeat

but how many battles can you wage,

and how many battles can you win

for a cause you no longer believe in?

i don’t know.

i think about bodies a lot,

and how clothes are so burdened with the task of

covering such substantial skeletons, such important skin,

as if they could ever veil

the blood that pulses in You.

Your body amongst orchids,

decomposing ever so slightly in the purple darkness of night:

a night that we do not possess

but it takes over us so completely in its solitude.

i hate that word.

i hate the entire farce of it all.

i’m not okay alone

you aren’t, either

and so isn’t anybody i’ve ever known,

but we keep dancing to this charade –

this pitiful masquerade

of independence and self-sustenance.

i don’t know.

i think what i’m trying to say is

you only know permanence when someone you love

becomes someone you used to love,

and the life that you’re breathing (but they aren’t),

the life that you’re breathing on borrowed time,

is suddenly so endless

so hollow

because it’s me without You:

echoes of a voice that always comes around somehow empty.

and i’m tired of opening at the close,

a futile juxtapose,

only because i won’t allow myself to admit

that nothingness exists when i’m without You.

White lines
of white silence,
end the violence,
take me to a winter wonderland.

They say that though the blizzard buries all the skeletons in your closet under a blanket of snow,
they'll still be there when it melts.

Play her a simple melody.

Will write things with her movement.
Two thousand silent words with her body.

Has always been one with words.
Studies the curves of their backs and the lengths or their tails.

Her books climb ladders to the top shelf by themselves, everything needed bounded to their spine.

Keeps her teardrops in a jar by the bedside.
Lies awake, counting them.
Only reads her favorite stories, over and over,
until she falls asleep.

The mind of an insomniac is always in pain.

Favoring the moon? Or the sun?
One dies when the other is born.

Things inside my closet pt.1

Four blue walls, four pink walls, three yellow walls, one green.
Moved everything across the hall got paint on the ceiling,

put pictures on the wall.

Went away, came back.
Took pictures off the wall, photographs of strangers.

Put them in a box, back of the closet.

She told me once that skeletons sleep there.

Seems peaceful.

Out of sight, never mind.

Lost my home, but found a new one.

If you lose yourself, check my closet.



a.bee