She blazoned in profusion
sour braids stained
by years of catastrophe
macabre salutations evolve
become libidinous farewells
upon the handsome black boughs
lie wicked forewarnings
sheathed within
pseudo-identification

I.
I am confined behind the walls of my very own life.
The echoing of cluttered freight trains and the laughter
of invisible clowns fill what's left of my conscience, and

the voices of old God's and hushed Devil's are my only form
of a lullaby. I'm not crazy, I'm just conscious of the overlooked.

II.
I can feel snakes when there are none. Consider this a sixth sense.
Literature clattered in the back of my throat and the top of my head,
I tried to explain this to my lover, who became increasingly

bothered by the fact that all I knew was Shakespeare, and all I spoke
of was Caesar, and the stars...to which we are underlings.

III.
A threat, they consider me. 'Not to others, but yourself.'
Fools, all of them. I was not granted a gift to have it locked away
and drowned at sea. Listen! Act! Forewarnings are scarce, and if

the Gods and the Devils have chosen me to speak, then I shall speak.
My only question: why didn't they choose someone to listen? To understand?

Forewarnings were posted
on her eyelashes,

whipping weakness away.

She wanted a courter  that could
handle her, a cat of nine tails
lashing upon his
                             naked back.

I never thought I would be that girl,
That girl who hikes so high up a mountain
And forgets to bring water, or any vitality,
That gets so lost among the trees,
Loses footing on the off-beaten path that
She attempts to break forewarnings to travel.

That never thought she would go this crazy,
Insane enough to pick all the petals
Off every flower in the field lining the street,
Knowing in her heart and in her logical mind,
That she was just killing flowers
Because she knew he loved her

Not.

I start breaking―
after the hate call.

Like emery paper,
something rubs my lips.
A raw affection bleeds.

It was only dust. I don't
want to wait for my tomorrow.

A conduit forbids
to improve the congenital
lisp of a godchild. You want
to preserve the ****** innocence.

Tears on both sides,
who will wipe off the scars
of the moon?

Not universal,
you were the cosmos,
staring into the eyes of void.

they mistake me
often.
their heads lead them astray.
they judge books.
and covers.
and they correlate us
together
much too often.
although
they’re aware.
and they know
all too well;
better than ever to engage
in such cliches.
classic traps.

they call me
beautiful
often
they show me their sketches
of isolated circles.
i later come to find
are so enamored
they've merged into
one
vastly overlapping
ven diagram
each individually labeled
me
and
purity

how i wish they’d stop seeing
                      and start hearing
the words
my much too often
hyper-glamorized lips
try uttering
forewarnings
of appearances
and deception
before their whims
begin interrupting
the inevitable
is the contempt
their ignorant hearts
will build
and ultimately
i will suffer and so will
my will
power--

more so than will power
they don't know
possesses the ability
to observe me
through truly
objective
optic nerves  

ever will.

Be happy don't worry
understood how thee feel sorry
for never defending me madam norry
(a real word meaning "woman of honor").

She (mine eldest sibling)
unfairly self burdened with blame
must jettison emotional baggage claim
forsooth (upon her person) pardon I exclaim
courtesy reasonable rhyme typed
within Macbook Pro
and linkedin Lenovo screen frame
now after LXII orbitz round the sun
able, willing and ready to relish game
of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Upbringing gifted me
with older kin named Amelie
Beth Harris (the - hyphen McGeehan)
hashtagged after she pledged troth
said first twixt Boyce and Harriet
donned mantle of protector
trumpeting forewarnings against bullies
lest they verbally and/or physically
assault puny socially withdrawn brother.

Later  existence (mine) witnessed unbridled wrath
more'n half my lifetime, a long time ago
hurled at greased lightning speed at yours truly
dealt Matthew Scott Harris
one after another severe psychological blow
courtesy father and mother
caw zing pent up (internalized) rage,
they did viciously crow
and spew expletive laced ultimatums

one direction did flow
buzzfeeding an introverted boy
emotionally and physically he failed to grow
rarely did practice social graces
such as saying "hello"
even mirrored reflection ignored
hated to see his unsightly self
body morphology melded
courtesy anorexia nervosa

(thank dog absent bulimia)
apparent starvation know
body else understood -
odd... even years (née decades) later
I too feel totally clueless, and lo
and behold extremely angry mow
ping with purposelessness
at sabotaged existence (mine)
at upsetting family dynamics status quo

cause ducks never lined up in a row
aptitude to become sufficient
unto myself quite slow
which found singular son (before marriage)
unable (NOT unwilling to work though
preference against shoveling sh*t
created toward mom and dad
(both apologetic before their deaths)
yet while livingsocial
triggered no end of woe.

Its a pumpkin kind of morning
The counters need to be scrubbed
I dreamed while you slumbered next to me
That you cleaned them all with haste
A happy torn look on your face
Like this was the part of me
You didn't sign up for
And last night I thumbed through my dream book
Read of forewarnings and subtextual signs.

You left your sweat and contact solution behind
Your second note on the table in the past 24 hours
You remarked last night
That was something you never did enough of
And you wept over all the loss you have experienced
I knew in my heart
That if I was really all about this
I would have turned to you and held you
But all that occurred
Was a limp but kind hand on your stomach.

So thats the thing now I guess
You said its me driving the car
I wish I felt more empowered
Or free with that fact
Attempting to release in the artifice
That was and is not.

I'm frank to a T
With you
As you gaze lovingly like I'm a mirage
And rather than find it charming
Last night in my sober state
I wished for more energy
More conversation
More of a piggy back.

I guess I've gotten bored
And somewhat lonely
Requiring a bit of loving
Though I fear for me more than I do
But I know we will both move on
But at what cost?
Do I have to run a production on this
On us
In order to proceed onward?

You are racing a boat this morning
I imagine images of me are floating through your head
And I wish this had all been here before
But it just wasn't
It just isn't
And its me driving the car
That's got to put the breaks on
And get out of the drivers seat

At some point
And some point soon.