Something like flower children
dancing through a field of trees.
I know it's called a forest
but I'm more set on calling
it what I please. Point being,
I'm joyous like I'm eating
the end of the month's harvest.

The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.

Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?

To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.

With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.

I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.  

Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic.  Now I use it to influence my movements.

My favorite moments
are spent in darkness.
Seconds spent sightless
wrapped in a woman's embrace
Eyes closed, breath held and lips pressed
against an opposing pair.
The hair of my mustache
brushed past and tickled
the top half of her thought's brim.
She giggled and bit a little
letting me nibble the bottom
as her tongue dribbled to the middle.
She became my phantom limb,
rolling and waving on my whim
and I, hers. As if I were sutures,
she quivered like this moment closed
wounds left by others. But I'm no doctor
and she's no lover. We couldn't even see
what we were doing to each other.

Lost in a sea
Of false realities,
****** fantasies and
Tiresome formalities.

Accustomed to the overture of
Treachery writhing in mouths.

Staggered by waves
Eclipsing my
Avenue to fulfillment

Amidst the silence of an apartment
judgment screams like a stadium broadcast.
The footsteps and chatter coming from the walls
reverberate through all six sides.

Six separate families.
Six separate worlds.
Six separate galaxies.

With one man in the center,
hoping one of those footsteps is for him.
Praying one of those laughs will be familiar.
As he lays on the floor of his home, a small
piece of his hope is chipped as the sounds
fade away into the silence of the night.

Once again he is engulfed by the blackness
he finds so soothing. This is where the footsteps
are for him. This is where the laughter is familiar.
Because they are his own.

We just can't be friends.
I don't like to pretend
that I am ok with you being within
my mind. I don't want you to be akin
to the despair and sin blanketing my skin.

It's not evil but the protection from it.
The confection of your innocence
with my affliction is one thing I'll forever
hold an objection to.

However this fantasy I hold
in your decency is something
hard to restrain. Your look and touch
dispel my agony. Like an act of banditry,
you rob me of my disdain.

Maybe it's your nature
to be nurturing.
Maybe it's the danger
bordering my being.
Maybe I should just ask you.

*I just know you don't deserve this mess