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 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.
See the same things every day.
Never seen another way.
Persons pictured perfectly distant.
Lovely glowing bluish hue.
dancing words unspoken.
Silent rhythm syncopated,
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.
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.
The caged bird never sings.
It can only pretend.
to no end.
Those songs you hear,
Composed of lengthy, tortured screams.
alarm to any listening.
in case you didn’t hear.
I will persist in ever asking,
just in case I wasn’t clear.
No bird sings.
They never sing.
Pretty shades of argument,
without the weight of common sense.
Morning wars we all ignore.
To give our days a lovely score.
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,
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.
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,
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.
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.
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?
I have forgotten how to write of hope,
drowning in things that darkness brings.
Resigned to ever sink and float,
going up for air, here and there.
Peering out with electric eyes,
on other lives and love I spy.
Scattered bits of intimacy,
that sometimes I wish were me.
Whether loved and left or left behind,
sweet moments turned to sour times.
All that love proved love is blind,
and love cannot exist unkind.
For everything that made me happy,
For all the times I sat and cried,
and for the times I tell myself,
I’ll be the sparkle of someone’s eye.