in the center
of my garden of thought
is an
     inky black pool
an obsidian mirror that ripples
     and grows
with each
          and every
hurt, pain, and torment I endure
circling the pool
     my verdant hopes
     my violaceous loves
     my carmine furies -
their blooms crawl, intertwine, creep
  in a mass of emotion and impulse
      pushing ever against the center
where my garden meets that
     ebony pond;
a barren desolate blight
  of decay and hopelessness
the vivid chromaticity of my
   emotion
in perpetual campaign against
          the void
        that forever
    threatens to
               consume
                    me

when they're
eating my brain;
I hope they choke on my
fears, self-loathing, and mostly my
regret

the fog outside my window creates
miniature halos around each
streetlight -
mocking me with their
barometrically-induced
divinity
how the **** can a streetlight
find God when all I find
are more reasons to dislike
my fellow man?

every day, all day,
on every channel
(CNN, MSNBC, FOX, ABC, NBC, CBS)
I see hour after
hour
of so-called news about
the latest boogeyman Arab,
celebrity pregnancies,
something else that
causes cancer,
a book that will
change my life,
or a heartwrenching expose
on teen drugs use in
suburbia.

hundreds of hours of
"news"
every day.  We talk
so much and still
fail to communicate.

And all the while, the light
outside
my window reaches enlightenment
without ever
saying
a
word.

"We're way
past
the point of no return,"
she said,
refusing
to look into my eyes
as she said it.
"I gave up on
you
a long time ago.  I'm in
love
with another man now."

There were so
many
things I wanted to say
right then. So many responses
on the tip of my tongue.

Some were
angry and inflammatory.
I didn't tell her that she
was the
*****
who lied and deceived me
for months while she
secured
her future with another man.

Some were
hurt and accusatory.
I didn't tell her that she
had unerringly found
every
***** in my armor and had
mercilessly
exploited them.

Some were
loving and pleading.
I didn't tell her that she
was my soul mate and that
there was no problem
too great
for us to overcome - together.

I didn't say anything.

Instead, I
****** her
and sent her back to
her new
boyfriend.

My arms held high, I glorify the night
which masks the horror of the world from me;
all the death, the sorrow and the spite.
I cannot fear that which I cannot see.

The night cries only to those who listen.
Deafened, I reach out and embrace the dark,
offering my soul in full submission.
And yet, the night cries dimly reach their mark.

The sweet comfort of night peels away
leaving ugly darkness and empty skies.
The keening leaves me in a disarray.
Frightened, I listen as the night cries.

The night cries torment me as there I stay;
I long only for the coming of day.

Love poem
Never read
In a letter
Never sent.

Self-inflicted torment.


-- Eleanor

One mans' salvation
Is another mans' torment
The things we move to and from
And though it may seem chaotic
Everyone fleeing and racing,
their paths crisscrossing
It is simple, only purpose decides
In which direction
We turn and run

From an early age before preschool,
there was one Pittsburgh man inside a box
who showed us how to find one’s bliss,
he set the tone to lead a happy life.
While I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
the Pittsburgh man in a box taught me
the virtue of kindness and curiosity.
He taught me make believe.

When I grew up, life’s temptations
pushed aside his lessons.
I traded the Pittsburgh man in a box
for the gluttonous abuses
of flesh and *****, soul-murdering hatred,
and the pursuit of greed.

One early morning, around 8am
I crawled out of bed,
careful not to disturb the woman
whose name had been lost in a fog of whiskey.
I walked into the living room,
switched on the TV, and there he stood,
the Pittsburgh man inside a box.
His gentle manner, his big imagination
revealed a simple truth:
I’d chosen the wrong path.

One day at the job, the sad news came.
The Pittsburgh man in a box had died.
He contracted stomach cancer.
That night the TV played his old shows.
I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
and said goodbye.