If I wanted to take a little time,
If I wanted to share my inner mind,
If someone said it had to rhyme,
I got no time for that ****…

Paint for me, in your chosen words,
The lines are branches; the letters, birds.
Sing to me songs sublime; absurd,
Just don’t tell me it has to rhyme…

Settle the bitter, ancient scores,
Make the audience seek for more,
Make the shoes I stand in yours,
Do not make me repeat myself…

Write me a letter, I long to hear,
Your poet’s voice in my mental ear,
Till the world does shed a collective tear,

I think I’ve made myself perfectly-  uh…

Clear.

In your eyes there is freedom,
From the shadow's glare
From the wounded stares
From the mirror snares

In your hands there is healing
From the heart of doubt
From a life without
From a razor mouth

In your heart there is meaning
For the misunderstood child
For the violent wild
For the broken smile

But in your death there is nothing
Forever closed eyes
Forever cold hands
Forever silent heart

All you can see in the mirror is you,

And in the background,
The idealized versions of you,

Your yet to be met accomplishments,
Adored by the world,

Your grandiose a shrine,
Of you, you, you,

---

Your humility a lie woven in to hold the picture just right,

Your love for others?
It's broken,

And one day when the mirror breaks,
There'll be no one and nothing left but the broken pieces.

on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.