The seams are torn. You can't remove the scar, Doctor.

I will never tell you; I have fallen for you.

I am experiencing a problem with my poetry
I do not know what my next step will be
Wobbly

Stumbling

over syllables and web pages
I am shaking and vibrating
Spot light is blinding
on life's stages
I keep forgetting my lines
So I speak of shoe laces
in leveled metaphors
and the look of their flesh cases was ageless
Yet, I can't stand their faces

Not on this or that knee

It is anxiety
I thought it was mild but its becoming severely
annoying. Faults and fractures
flake my stature
like bark from a tree

Just start running

Evading
Something I do not want to face
Slave trading, soul maiming
while their raiding
I am hidden in the shading
of planets in space
We're all black in this place
No superiority nor disgrace
Just aiding
the next broken person
so they can have a chance in the race.

I would talk to you, but I have nothing new to say
We spend the hours of our day
together

In spare time we joke and play
Chat about yellow, blue and grey
weather

I meditate while you pray
Our minds connected so they can't stray
tether.

Even though it sounds cliche
Your smile makes me float away
feather

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
and doesn't know the crew

I never tell her my story
She reads every page herself
She never touches the exhibits
the essences of me
elegantly
arranged upon the shelves

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad shes just a friend
and never knew the crew

She paces in silence
Slight smirk under her eyes
As she wanders around my gallery
galaxies
analogies of abnormal realities
Seen from within the guise

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And will never know the crew

Every so often she pauses
Her footsteps resound
The curator looks up interested
and solicited
a reaction uninhibited
From a mind profound

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And doesn't want to know the crew

Her analysis is always unique
And as if she was the artist
The curator thinks, in retrospect
she is correct.
As she walks out the exit
Her path is marked by a trail of stardust.

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And is unknown to the crew