Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aged mirror, what have you seen?
What secrets do you hold?
You pause the passing moments,
Keep them, never to grow old.
What darting glances have you caught,
Tearful fights reluctant fought,
Subtle hand slips to another,
One man calls his friend a brother.
Have you caught death,
A life's first breath?
Have you witnessed an idea's birth?
The caroling song of laughter's mirth?
People pass you, pause just to check,
Their hair, a blemish, some unseen fleck,
Then onward with their lives,
Leave some small trace of soul behind.
And so you collect pieces of people,
Some vivaciously alive, some feeble.
Some living to fill the day,
Or waiting for it to pass away.
I wonder what you've seen, oh mirror,
The pieces that connect us.
A small reflective shard of glass,
Its purpose to collect us.
I am a mushroom in the woods
My home a rotten log
Damp collecting in my hood
Abide in quiet fog.

Flustered mice scurry by
Their tales chase close behind.
Weathered trees grow old and die,
I do not think to mind.

I am dying, I am death,
I eat those come before.
Mushrooms have no need for breath,
I love my forest floor.
My seams are unraveling.
No, not unraveling,
Simply traveling to another place,
Another time, keeping pace with pacing lines
Lining stitch by stitch as each one falls away.
Another day away and still the fraying corners
eat decaying corpses, trapped sojourners
From another place, another time.
I am fine. And my finely sharpened edges
Carve finely sharpened wedges into the cracks
inside the cracking cavern in my skull.
Dramatics. Call me actress.
These are antics of my mind I call distress.
Call me figure of the stage and of the dress.
But I get stage fright, and the lights that shine for me
are not friendly, they are mean.
They are fakers, takers of light, great figures of fright.
They carve my caving walls,
and empty stalls of shopping malls, abandoned halls
And eyeless dolls who crave my mortal scream.
What can I do but scream?
As my skin peels back like fabric,
The cavern in my skull croons, an addict,
shaking, pulse racing as my quaking hands wave
to an invisible stage.
The lights are up, the monsters creep
How can I dare to fall asleep?
Not so easy, my creeping foe
My stitching fades and we both know
That while fabric once torn can mend,
A mind once broken will still bend.
My mind calls me Imposter.
I rip my skin, letting blood pool on its surface.
I, Monster, lick my wound and cry that I am broken.
I howl in the dread that I am nothing.
Terrified, I scream into the void.
No answer floats up from its depth.
Perhaps it didn't hear me.
Perhaps no sound ripped through my throat, perhaps its raw constriction didn't manifest into noise, perhaps I, monster, cannot be heard.
Monsters don't exist.
I, Imposter, groan and go about my day.
It’s a sunny day.
Clouds squat over the horizon,
But under their hazy scowl
The sunshine burns all the brighter.
I am not lifted, I am comforted.
Still broken, but mending.
Golden warmth wraps around me;
Nervous breeze touches my face,
Fingertips caressing my skin.
The smell of rain reminds me
My path is hidden in fog.
But for now, I close my eyes.
I enjoy the warmth
Of a sunny day.
Why must sleep evade me?
A thing of rest, arrest the soul.
Restless beauty, cold, untold.
A lie, shapeless mass meanders by
and as I sleep, the truth unfolds:
when I sleep the colors leak,
the colors slip and fade.
They break and play around my bed.
The shadows on my walls
are not angry, they are tame.
The shadows laugh, they play a game.
They reach and rake their playful claws
against my skin.
They take my mind.
Faking lines to keep me tired but always lying
to keep my flying thoughts from breaking free.
I am not free.
The walls, they trap me in dumb slumber,
passing seconds beyond number
while I scream and shake and rake
my fingernails across the door inside my mind.
My mind, mindlessly reeling.
Blindly feeling for some peeling hole,
a hole out of the wholly unrelenting crevice,
wherein a menace waiting for a certain slip,
sliding into sickness, into sleep.
The moments before sleep are bleak.
Monsters on the floorboards creep and creak.
No way to bolt the door, still unsure,
where sleep takes me and what for?
I am restless, my mind creeps.
It knows, I know, I must soon fall to sleep.
I cannot stand to hope,
for empty hope? Despair.
My two-faced way to cope,
A hope that is not there.
Next page