So gouge out my eyes and call me blind,
Paint my eyes black and call my words flat,

I am the captain of my life!
I am the ocean and the tide,
I am the boat beneath my feet,
So come sail with me,
        Sail this sea.

So grind down my fingers and tell me
          to climb!
I will fly so far away from your lies,
          No time.

Don’t tell me that life is black and white,
Cause I’ve see the reds and blues so bright,
Don’t tell me I have to stay here,
‘Cause there’s so much I fear,
        Come with me dear.

I am the master of my soul,
I fly my colors whole,
I am not afraid to see what’s next,
The future is so complex,
    But your eyes are still my objects
                    of desire.


-August 23rd 2013

an exploited hand
threw a grenade
no pin -  
no spoon -
seconds seemed
like hours
in your mind
the steel growl
where mortals drift
above hollow ground
and out of the corner
of your sense
your lover’s destruction
flashed in the sand
the sins sprayed
all over the **** place
into their precious
eyes, blinding them
for a second -
then your offspring
waited and stared
into their cold
foiled TV dinners
quietly,
an empty table setting
and dust filled chair
clinked from the glass
spilling down
onto the carpet
then a muffled news
anchor whined
about crime
and revenues
in the background
with anxious
and forced discussion
“so….”
young eyes
became meaningless
under the glittering
shrapnel that flickered
across their screen
that night
like tinsel hanging
on the tree
and slits dripped
on soot red flesh
in this distant land
covered in sand
while little boys
and little girls
went about their
playful exchange
in this small
midwestern town
where everyone
thought they new
the score
behind the
door.

Sometimes, repressed memories flood back,
and I get swept away in the current.

Trauma has a way of repeating itself,
with current physical pain, my body reminisces.

Remembering, some of my closest sibling memories,
involved my actual back as a shield.

Huddled together, trembling in anticipation,
of that next forsaken crack of leather.

How the scars have faded away,
the pain still has a firm hold.

The instances stung, with those studded shards
encrusted into the belt.

Humans find ways to survive,
in any situation you adapt.

Tried to avoid the rage at all costs,
no complaining, no whining.

Sharing feelings was frowned upon,
Sympathy and empathy replaced by malice and anger.

Didn't matter what we did,
If there was drinking, there were beatings.

Hope long lost,
only a distant memory.

But the worst part was the constant fear,
the uncontrollable flinch, when someone went to pat you on the back.

Not just "good jobs", but all sorts of little things
had a nasty habit of dragging out these memories.

Fire drills, huddled over,
protecting what you could.

Brushing up against a chair,
pain receptors flaring.

Learning how to sleep,
without any pillows.

You don't need them,
your sister does.

Trying to explain being at the pool,
95 degree weather, long sleeves on.

Back against the wall in every room,
so no one could sneak up on you.

Scared of back massages, and the wrong press,
tissue still sensitive here, and completely numb there.

Afraid of thunderstorms,
just sound like cracks from the studded leather.

In the fast world of today,
where you're pressured to go out and do,
I find, that my favorite days,
are filled with just laying in the grass.

The peaceful experience
tends to slow down time,
and I appreciate the little things
that much more.

it was one of those nights
when the dark finds its way to
wrap itself around you in a blanket of concern
it turns to a vapor that seeps into your skin and bursts
from beneath your eyes and out your fingertips

it’s the wind outside the car window
rushing past while you sit in a daze of
obscurity to the tip-tapping of your
fingers on the keyboard thinking faster than
your brain, scrolling scrolling scrolling through the
pages that don’t really exist
haven’t you ever realized the way the internet
leaves you feeling empty inside the
same empty you felt after skipping meals when
you were young like skipping stones across the lake
always ending in the same middle abyss of springtime when
everything was new and the water was still too cold to touch

flash forward to here you’re in the stillness
darkened and dazed
with a glass of that same cold water sitting
next to you but you’ve forgotten so now it’s
lukewarm and it’ll make you sick, she would tell you
so don’t drink it
but it’s okay, you tell her
you’re too focused on the bright screen blinding your
tired eyes anyway searching for something you can’t
find you just feel empty
darkened and dazed
it was one of those nights

behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring  
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.

Dark clouds and stormy skies  
are always hidden behind the sunniest of days

Even the most beautiful weather has  a chance of showers, with the possibility of hurricanes

One can never really tell if future skies hold the storm of the century or the most tranquil of seas

Even during the most perfect of days one should bring a rain coat and a floatation device in case beauty does cease.

I hover over your words
not for perfections.

don't paint me an azure sky
cotton clouds
a field of sunflower
gold crests of afternoon waves
dark labyrinths
inner demons
or even angel faeries

for my life of half drawn images
half digested joys
faintly lit phantoms
rough edge
rugged walkway

write me out
a flawed poem
imperfected to the hilt
no structure
no style
wild jots of your thoughts
just like you and me

*flawed but heavenly!