IF tears could heal pain
IF sympathy could stitch wound
IF prayers could bring back life
How different the definition of living would be then

THE WAY IN WHICH INSECURITY MAKES A HOME OF MY BODY,
LEAVING HER PILES OF SELF-DOUBT AND ANXIETY LYING ON THE FLOOR.
AS I CONTINUE TO STUMBLE AWAY FROM MIRRORS,
TRYING TO FIND A REFLECTION SHE HAS NOT BECOME A PART OF,
SHE REVEALS TO ME,
THAT THE MIRROR DOES NOT HAVE TO BE CRACKED IN ORDER FOR ME TO LOOK BROKEN.
I ASK HER WHY SHE HAS NOT MOVED OUT ALREADY,
AND SHE SAYS IT IS NOT HER FAULT THAT I ALWAYS LEAVE THE DOORS OPEN.
I TELL HER OF HOW I MISPLACED THE KEYS IN THE HANDS OF PEOPLE WHO COULD NOT LOVE ALL THAT I AM.
AND WITHOUT HESITATION,
SHE ASKS ME WHY I HAVE NOT YET CHANGED THE LOCKS.

The minds eye is omnidirectional.
It can see hopes and dreams.
It is the ultimate source of human creativity.
But it also can be the source of anguish, fear and rejection.
At times it is flawless, yet at others it is completely flawed.
The third eye is always blind.
It is fixed, not seeing the surrounding truthfulness, and often provides a singular view.
This eye sees the convoluted future and fails to see the past.
The eye of complete truth and accuracy is the Hindsight Eye. As is known,  " Hindsight is 20/20 " and of perfect vision.
It is by far the eye of beauty, revelation and what the hell was I thinking.
It is the revealed truth and lies.
Liar's, keeper of secrets, they fear this eye the most.
We as humans, are equipped usually with vision.
Some see more then others.
Some are also clairvoyant, prediction of future, or worldly events, not normally recognizes vision.
Other people think they see something as truth. Oftentimes these are obscure and closer to fabricated visions of insanity.
I See... ...says the all seeing eye.

Change seems inevitable.
Old sentences carry
different purposes.
Mold forms in old coffee cups
like modern paintings.
Tubas boom like thunderstorms.
Your age appears first
on the back of your hands.
A clock talks by ticking
or not at all.
The knot is not the rope.
Poets write only white lines.
Medications are altered.
The brain forgets itself.
Impatience scribbles nonsense.
We become heavier,
weighted and slower.
Playing the Sitar
becomes easy as whistling.
Tamed ostriches preen
in toy cowboy hats.
Lint tells secrets of navels.
Words float in bubbles.
The wicked become tender.
Voices ebb and echo
devoid of throats and tongues.
Speech nailed to walls
becomes the new poetry.
We burn the news
to warm ourselves.
Each dawn forms
a unique conclusion.
A moth destroys Chicago.
Vandalism is elevated
to curated folk art.
How can I be sure
these syllables are real
when everything changes
except the desire for coffee?
Please don't wake me up.
I want to remember this dream.

   ~mce

when insomnia strikes, I try to hide
it shows streams of restraint that need hiding...

it. I.  me. do. The. Beginning.

I don't think I really know.
I just wanted to be left
alone.

do it for the cause.
do it for those who can't
make it look effortless
and do it without a pause.
it can't be done overnight

but remember that you have to go through this week without being right.

Forcing rhyme won't help you this time... oh well, here it is...

can't say I didn't try...