there are some
when they get angry
it creeps on them like
the frost. they don't
see it until it has seeped into the ground
and siezed the pipes hostage
they wriggle and bundle to stay
warm, but it always get in through a
hole on their gloved hand
or a exposed patch on their neck
a thick cotton scarf couldn't conceal.

others
when they get mad
it shakes them and
convulses through their veins
as if their blood has turned to
boiling, sputtering magma.
and they grab & pull their hair.
they may shout and explode,
dancing around obscenties,
and throwing fancy vases at white washed walls
but when the fiery seige is over, they may just sit
and wonder what fiend just beset their soul
and stared out through their eyes

few some still
hesitate, ponder.
fold their anger away
in an envelope. safely
and when they open it,
it may be white
bruised and creased, where irate thoughts skittered violently about to escape.
where
angry hands slammed it shut, gentle hands silently
reopened
and when their eyes peer in and see ashes and ice
where the anger; so flammable, so frigid, so uncontained;
raw energy in its true state and alone out of host, ignited and shattered
itself not them

and

the siege is over
as they pour the worthless contents out
of the folded, creased envelope.

if our situations were reversed
i'd say nothing.

but i am not you, and
you are in no way, me

while my ailment may be
only fiction
to you.
you mock, and silence me.

ahh, yes, but how would you know : "friend, do tell me:
what you cannot see must not be real?
is that so. what a philosopher
you are. i'll ask you this, you see so little, though
how do you compensate?

wait, i remember now...you don't"

i never expected understanding
i hardly believe in it anymore.

it is the misunderstandings that are
tiresome
and you,
                 my friends,
are too.

it hit me sharply
i cannot describe the faces i saw.
only that they were not human.
malicious, creeping beings.
and the worst part, i knew what they were,
as soon as i crossed into the street.
maybe it was the gait, the dark green hoods they crouched into.
but my legs wouldn't turn.

and then they slowly turned to me, cheeks twisted
into scarred smiles and monstrous looming eyes of dark intent.

my legs fell from under me, even as i tried to sprint from..
scrambling on the ground, i begged.
they were deadly silent. just shuffling

and i knew the whole **** time.

and i woke, my heart pounding.

i have never fully grasped
serenity. calm. silence
of mind

always, going
always running, always thinking.
doing. i prepare. but alas, that is
never enough.

what if for a day
i pretended. it never happened. nothing changed
nothing hurt.

would that help?
probably not. at this point, i need understanding.
freedom from.

i apoligize.
i am vague. not a person alive
knows all. everything. since then to
now. this moment.

how could i explain?

perhaps, i could tell to you
that i feel as though i have been turned inside out, stripped, and shooken. like an
animal has climbed inside me and torched me; clawed, teared every part me. until
i am an empty carcass, living in the dark as would a zombie.

and then i would leave, quietly. secretly.
i live better that way.

as if anyone could know.

sometimes if i turn my head to fast
i still get dizzy. and the panic that seizes every nerve,
each fiber, consumes me. becomes me
                                                                            it is not possible, no
my own brand of paralysis.
the same hollow, infinite, deafening silence which
cannot be erased. that i am still
running from

it is all i remember.

and then i grab, clawing through empty air
                  trying to find solid matter.
to steady
                   myself
anywhere
                   *anywhere?

often, as a people
we think. we function.
it is grand, is it not?

often, as a person.
before, i
would do the same.  

until now. when thinking to
hard is not only possible, but painfully real.
where functioning, is a "almost there; better luck next time"
occurence.
ah, i have come far
in this new reality i have fallen through.

but listen as i must now do
where do you hide--
escape
             and sleep.
when you no longer
can.

when you crack an egg
you could be baking
-maybe a cake, or cookies
blueberry muffins.

have you ever watched the egg when its cracked

first hit on the big glass bowl.
--a little may ooze out, the white of the egg. it gets on your hands
its annoying. but it washes off.
survivable.

the second hit maybe harder this time.
---more comes out, the shell may break off a little. that **** shell is nesting on your beautifully mixed pile of flour, sugar, and vanilla extract.
******. this time, you fish it out with a fork
disturbing what you've created.

the third hit
----the egg shell, crafted so well to protect inside,
is cracked.
everything. comes. out.
like a river the broken yolk, flows and
twists around the bowl.

and by whisking it under the surface of the all purpose flour,
you only make it more turbulent.


and you get your ******* muffins.