Sunday will come
Just a few days from now
An eternity to wait
To say what is long overdue

Sunday will come
And we will confess ourselves
Fear will hold us
Hope will push us closer

And on Sunday
When we both shake in emotion
My hand in yours
We will find a way to work through

The grass is speaking
The sound comes tickling me in my ears
just like his voice
When he touches the grass, it slips through
his beautiful fingers and
it touches his fingertips
in such a perfect way

We don't say a word

He lies down in the summer grass
it shapes his perfect body
and strokes his defined cheekbones

It's only him, me
and the speaking grass

Today, I accidentally spoke to a stranger.
Seated at the round table with my laptop,
I stared at a couple speaking my language.
He caught me looking, and seemed confused.
I was embarrassed for staring
so I explained, "I understood them-
there aren't many other speakers that I know,"
and quickly looked back down.
And the feeling of regret welled up inside me.
It was far too late.
I can see him staring at me, now.
Burning holes into the back of my screen.
For a second I thought he might have been mute.
Why stare at me so hard without uttering a word?
I'm not wearing anything particularly interesting.
He must know that I see him in my peripherals.
What if he really is mute?
Maybe he needs some help?
Should I look up? I can't.
Why not? Because that would mean
I'd have to speak more.
You shouldn't have spoken at all.
I was embarrassed for staring.
He should be embarrassed for staring, too.
I hope I didn't "speak his language."
He probably isn't even looking at you.
We're the only ones at this table.
He keeps looking up from his book.
Maybe if I look at him quickly I'll know if he's looking
at the empty billboard behind me instead.
I just looked up.
He's looking at me.
And not a word was exchanged.
Now this is that much more awkward,
I'll never look up again.
I'll just pack my things.
And never speak to strangers again.
But wait...
what if he knows me?
What if he's waiting for me to recognize him?
I don't know him, I'm sure.
He won't stop staring.
I close my laptop
and see my motley stickers.
Some with writing, some with pictures.
Sigh of relief.
Just my stickers.
I'd look, too.
Packed it away
and went to class.
How silly was I, just then?
But I still won't speak to strangers, again.

I.
I am confined behind the walls of my very own life.
The echoing of cluttered freight trains and the laughter
of invisible clowns fill what's left of my conscience, and

the voices of old God's and hushed Devil's are my only form
of a lullaby. I'm not crazy, I'm just conscious of the overlooked.

II.
I can feel snakes when there are none. Consider this a sixth sense.
Literature clattered in the back of my throat and the top of my head,
I tried to explain this to my lover, who became increasingly

bothered by the fact that all I knew was Shakespeare, and all I spoke
of was Caesar, and the stars...to which we are underlings.

III.
A threat, they consider me. 'Not to others, but yourself.'
Fools, all of them. I was not granted a gift to have it locked away
and drowned at sea. Listen! Act! Forewarnings are scarce, and if

the Gods and the Devils have chosen me to speak, then I shall speak.
My only question: why didn't they choose someone to listen? To understand?

people say you gotta
speak slowly
breath softly and
tell me you -----
people say you gotta
eat health
breath slowly and
tell me you -----
people say you gotta
move fluidly and be
sane and wild and free and tamed and cursed and blessed and everlasting and dedicated and happy and helpful and kind
and
speak softly
and
breath slowly
and
tell me,
please god tell me,
tell me
"I love you."

yesterday i was alone and walking down some tunnel
that was the opposite of crowded and yet i felt as if i took up the whole space and more
and my words ran long lines, longer than my normal short thoughts
breaking up in weird places
and then for the first time in a long time my mind spoke with my body instead of my soul
and my voice was coming back at me from the concrete walls
and i realized
i was talking to myself and i was answering myself and even as the conversation continued
i thought, all these times i’ve called myself crazy and now i’m proving my theories right
but there’s nobody here to bear witness to the fact
that i am arguing the existence of my own sanity
and i fell silent only when i encountered another human being and suddenly
i felt ashamed, even though the words i had been saying
were nothing short of some sort of honest truth, and actually
i kind of liked being crazy and i vowed that the next time i find myself
really, truly alone
i’m gonna check in on how i’m feeling
because my voice seems to know me better than i know myself
and i’d like to know myself

spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind

felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it

there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter

words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure