poems and eulogies

start with a word
they don’t care which word you choose
as long as you begin
and, later, end

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you should know this

schizophrenia, mental health, bipolar disorder, depression, abuse, pain, poetry, dark poetry, dark literature

to me – you are just a hallucination
looking at yourself
trying to decide
if you are real

I want every ounce of your phantom
to penetrate my spirit
and break me

but I do not exist

Coquette

it doesn’t matter that she is blank
to you
i see her
scribbled in fine
point

so many want her
temptation
I am not alone

in this I have thought
about her since
childhood

so many have had her
some by accident
or not – no matter –
when she craves
a taste of you
she will have you

some do not want her
cold caress
stealing their breath

but others – like me
flirt with her heavy
want
zero our rifles
just enough
to taste silver
before

Life Cycle

Life cycle

Inside egg shell
ostrich bones
form over
and over fire
ostrich feathers fry.

Summer twilight
under seas
dead fish float
trying out moss
5th Ave
cross streets.

It’s a like
a thumb’s up
a smile
a laugh

a new thought
a new way to say
life lives to die
concrete
it is.

Confession From Heaven

Confession from Heaven

as you can see
we have potential

although hearts burst out in tears,
locked behind bars, in chains,
against a will of their own,

we carry every blink used
to wipe away the pain,
we stand guard when the Earth
shakes underneath feet full of breath

breathe easy
we have potential
we have not lost the sunlight
of yesterday,
or the smell of a growing world

childhood kisses are fresh on our
souls

we have not passed
we are not the past

we are your honest future
waiting
for our bound hearts
to hold each other
once again.

Inside Of A Sleep

You have gone.  There is no now,
just used to;
cement packed into Earth fragments.
Ironic, it is, that solidity above the surface
is made from what lies beneath.

Think about – oh how you can’t!
I miss that.
Poor baby.
You try to kill me again,
and again,
to show me something new,

a new world inside of sleep.
Is this how it is for you?
A permanent anywhere,
where you never are, but were?

I miss that what it was
will not, and never be anything
but you and me, asleep inside of a
sleep.

The Passage

The dragon doesn’t wake with the sun.  It is warmed
through mock light, on an affected cove.  It looks
like it could be made of mopani,
but he cannot tell colors
what they should be
and what they are not.

I left him a note, this morning, by his glass house.
In his rest, he inhaled the pushed warm air
that circulates my blood each night.
I promised him Aspen and Cabbage and
my return.

I am late.  I am always pushing the clock
into my lungs, back to my cycle,
back to little hands and little
feet swirling around
a glass house,
tearing cabbage for a dragon that
constantly stares at me.