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Whisper

I would forget you if I could.
Even though I love you.
I would be free from things that can’t be,
the only I refuse to see.

Lasting lifetimes left alone,
bonds that form and never know
the end that never knew itself
that stranger, always someone else
that love, that love,
that memory.
those soft bits left inside of me

the years that mock this tenderness,
this mind aware of common sense,
this heart that hates the metaphor
pressing down
ignore, ignore

eyes not blind refuse to bind,
the awful empty thing inside.
the future that will always wish,
whatever else, your happiness
a light that ever shines the way
from now until the end of days.

facing fiction.

I am just a name to you,

and sometimes a photo too.

I’d like to think that I exist,
a little longer on the list,
I know.
it’s fine.

I have one too.
there you are.

or something like it.

forgive my uninformed conclusions,
all I know are these illusions.
moments framed for mass consumption.
..how dare you make these broad assumptions.

now read this thing.
did you see where I was last week?

…I just got married
look at this drink.
look at this tropical cocktail.
LOOK AT IT.

did you notice again how happy I am?
did you see that I was surrounded by friends?
do you now feel unloved and alone at a distance?
knowing that nothing could make any difference?

welcome my friends,
to invisible cliff.
the edge of the things you suddenly wish.

the never ending highlight reel
scrolling faster than you feel
rolling past your yesterday
looking very much today

leaving room for no improvement,
built despair restricting movement,
but tell me that you’re having fun,
lifting expectation ton.

Public Pool

See the same things every day.
Never seen another way.
Persons pictured perfectly distant.
Lovely glowing bluish hue.

Fingertips coordinated,
dancing words unspoken.
Silent rhythm syncopated,
communication broken.

No one speak.
No one see.
No one hear a thing.

Watch the markings find themselves,
when words are ready to appear.
Speak to them without a sound,
shallow waters never fear.

Dead Birds.

don’t open the door to strangers.
you never know what lurks outside.
that savage soul that sings and soothes,
may not belong to you.

the ringing in that symphony,
may not belong to that you see.
the sounds that lure the weak you feel,
are rarely born from any real,

and if, so what?
a part of you.

that’s all there is.
a part from you.

nothing you haven’t lost before,
ignore the squawk of nevermore,
if life was lent from literature,
the end of this I’d know for sure.

aria of sorrow

The caged bird never sings.
It can only pretend.
to no end.

Those songs you hear,
sweet melodies.
Composed of lengthy, tortured screams.

I want.
alarm to any listening.
I want.
in case you didn’t hear.

I will persist in ever asking,
just in case I wasn’t clear.

No Rain

No spider ever died with limbs spread wide.
It curls up so small.
All the webs and silk and string,
spun alone and empty.

Does the spider wish to be,
Another thing?
A bumblebee?

Surrounded by a family,
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

The happy bee cannot sit still,
Of happiness there is no fill,
It only knows of what it can be,

Not the spider, never me.

But what does the happy bee know of spiders?
Lonely murderers living beside us.
Lovely dancers silently solo,

Moving in beautiful synchronous steps,
Delicate movements dancing with death.

Dignity stolen by pressure released.
That is the secret when it is deceased.
The spider does not curl up when it dies.

To imply this cowardice,
is to deny what is.
So let us leave this spider be,
To dream itself a bumblebee.

Kenjataimu

Nothing left but wishful thinking.
Tears denied by forceful blinking.
Drops as clear as what I thought,
Cloudy dreams I never sought.

I would play every cliche,
I would say,
All of the things I could glean,
then I would wait,
and call you my soul mate.

What a game I could play,
filled with glorious mistakes.
Judgments of love based only on face.

I would date all of the things,
that happened my way.
Once, perhaps twice, then wander away.
I hate to be honest,
but you’ll hate anyway.

No matter what excuse,
I’ll lose.
Optimism has no use.

I really thought I’d be better at this by now.
I’ve gotten worse.

and it all makes sense if there’s nothing left.

Fuck your Busk.

It has occurred to me to be like one of those.
The clever ones who sit alone.
Clockwork letters punched with pretty fingers.
Empty words that rarely linger.

Should I set a table in these places?
Filled with trendy poor disgraces?
Dare I call my own words art?
And let my plain words play the part?

A dollar, no, just name your price.
My mind will make the sacrifice.
What a bargain you could offer.
If you write and never suffer.

I could make that desk tomorrow,
Built of bad decision sorrow.
You’d wonder, after, at the cost,
When those words are what you lost.

A poet paid is but a cloud.
A shining sun rarely allowed.
Nothing is lost if nothing is in it.
nothing you have could make me finish.

A place on earth.

Where is the pond that softly sighs,
when I am sitting by its side?
Gentle bits of greenish glow,
of mating and murder and god only knows.

I listen close as beauty sings,
lonely, desperate harmonies.
I feel it close when beauty stings,
and takes the life right out of me.

A brook below begins to babble,
it speaks to me of happy things.
of dancing close around a fire,
swaying to sounds without a source,
of rhythmic pulsing begging motion,
deep within a leafy ocean.

Wild, tangled, laughing branches,
reach across for patient partners.
quietly, I take this chance,
my love, my heart, my heaven waiting,
may I please, have this dance?