The inner most of the heart
    is never articulated--it defies
    words and smears the truth
    before the speaker's eyes

  and love in its mysterious ways
  appears and parts in so many a guise
  definitions whether from Camus, Sartre
or Wittgenstein sadly fail-- each word corrupts and dies

the screen
the keyboard
the small room
the closed door
locked door
closed window
blinders keeping
the sun away
a chair
an empty stomach
protesting against
tequila
more tequila

ready

you can write now

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand

the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair

"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"

"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."

At the end of
                             sanity
I am in pieces

if  only my heart
           had a shield

intentions buried
            inside a tomb of fear

disguised torment
            where smiles lay hidden