Can I come back home
Are you over it yet
I don't mean to rush you
But please don't forget

Take all the time you need
I'm afraid there's not that much
But I'll give you all the room
I just pray that you'll keep in touch

I'll still be here waiting when you come around
You know exactly where I'll be
Wondering about the things on your mind
For I can feel that they're about me

You scared me so far away
That I'm terrified to reach you
I act like you'll come back one day
But we all know what's true

You'll never come back
Or even say a word
My deepest apology
Has been left unheard

sometimes I write goodbyes
to prepare for hellos
and maybe that's why
they like me
(when I'm distant)

We write*

Not for your pleasure,
Your entertainment
Or anyone's attention
We're here writing
Trying to reach something
Left unsaid
Inside of us
Something we find
For a moment
When we feel satisfied
With something
Some
Words that we have
Thrown together
In random order
Some abstraction
We disguise it
Decorate it  
But it's all there
Right in-between the lines

Why do we write?*
Hell, I don't think we know either

Lately I've been feeling as if everything I'm writing belongs
under the kitchen sink with all the Comet and various brands of bleach and the
rest of the junk cleaning supplies that haven't been used since
the early nineties.

Ideas are scarce,
thoughts aren't making the cut,
and I feel like I'm in a more disconcerting version of ***** Wonka's glass elevator
riding robotically in this box,
puncturing others' moments with its corners like they're
gigantic, ecstasy-encompassed balloons
capable of doing nothing more than
launching weak waves of laughter
that languidly dissipate when they reach the
hard exterior of my cage

I woke up cold in a dark house, not a home
I woke up in a cold sweat all alone.
I don’t know why I even woke up at all…
Most of the time I don’t
I have nothing ahead of me
Nothing to look forward to that is
It would be a break if I had solely nothing ahead of me
But of course I am contained
Repressed, oppressed, stressed, depressed
Surely I am confined
And sometimes I die

Upon waking up again I choose to sit up in my bed in the dark
And within the black it is just my consciousness and my thoughts
My existence, reflective of the black, becomes one with the absence of light
Sometimes I sleep and my brain continues thinking in my head
Only to think about emotion whose practical use is now dead
Even if I had left
It was through the light of day that I had slept
Even if I had left
There would be nothing that can quell the aches in my chest
This house took my everything I had ever felt
These sheets, I acuse them of theft
Even if I had left
I would never part from the bed.

manage the-
measure the-
beating worry
surging- the tickles
of dread I didn't
really Don't
welcome.
if I love you
and lose you in the daily...
that
fear of leaving you sleeping.
what do I do
when they really shut the door
and we're
cut off.
when I'm here
are you,
still there?
can my love -its
armor
is it strong
enough?
vs. the world
I worry.

Push and pull
like a wave
tides to the moon
the way she goes-

All equators
on the line
in balance
and yet the colour is
off.

Twists in the
branches of fate
may break, fall in the
road, shatter on
the fork.

but with my plate
so full, I cannot clean
it.

I fear starvation
I worry for the coming winter
I cannot store
for I am already frozen.

A stone cannot hide
For it cannot
Feel.

I am not a stone...
But I wish
I was.

there's something about
'****'

not scatological.
the edge.

the sacred,
bitter, hit.

deliberate.

of someone saying it,
spitting the
syllable-

while wearing a stolen
black leather jacket
and red lipstick
stubbing a cigarette
and cursing sideways at
'men and their...'
back handedness.

from an artist's mouth...
maybe a woman's...

but the taste
it's like metal

it always cuts-
just right.