Him

And my thoughts return to him
Down his back
Across his eyes
Maybe a touch to the shoulders,
Some hair slipped between two fingers
A slow fingering of the fleshy canal of his spine.
Irregardless of the look, thought or illusion,
It's the truth
that he does
and does not
fill this room

Blind

Because it's easier to feel the tears cried out in blood
Than look into those eyes
Into those politics
Into those words
Into that circumstance
That you cannot see
But cannot be undone
But cannot be left behind
Replaced
Or deleted
Or made into something more aesthetically pleasing
No it's easier to take this knife
And plunge into unsaid words
Regretted days
Blatant lies
And sever a place
presently unclean
The place you were suppose to heal

And Maybe I Don't Mean Any of this........

I do yoga in the morning, instead of mope. I read Sartre, instead of cry. Actions come easier now, when thoughts were all I had. I'm at place, full of live anger and partial acceptance. Which is better than hoping.
Because I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of wanting, I'm tired of hoping. I'm really just tired, instead of me. Because when a person becomes everything to you, and they're never around to see it, negligence is all you have in your hands to show time what you've accomplished. So I've decided to let you go. Tell myself to stop hoping. And tell my feet to start walking. And let my head do the thinking. Instead of a maybe . Or a possibility. Or the what if.
No, just the action....
Because the one thing this world requires of you, and it's not negligence, it's you.
For a change, I want you to come to me, and remember how special it is that I actually love you. Because nobody ever asked me to. I chose that for sure. And now I'm choosing this.

Bath Tub

A bath tub full of water. Once shiny now unkempt after years of neglect. Layers of porcelain, long since chipped. The interior more than eroded, flaking into bits from every edge. Beneath deep cracks and exposed bumps, lay rust and patches of yellowish, dull white. The bath tub itself sinks deep into a floor whose foundation, originally poorly made, came into a curve beneath the center of the tub. She lay her fingers on the edge of it all, the bath tube full of Luke warm water and bubbles. She blew five kisses to the wind and sunk her head under the murky surface. The sharks of her imagination where mere prisms of dust and visions of virus and disease. She bathed on, held her breath as long as she could. She promised herself she would clean it all up tomorrow.

Beautiful

"I love your innocent, decent face."
They would say, with a hint of pretension that engages them in snarls of their lips. Pushing up their own confidence in making it wrong for you to be the most beautiful man in the world. Be my most beautiful man in the world.

Fifty Small Pieces in the Ocean

Fifty small pieces in the ocean swimming around, fighting for life. One screams out "Do you know me?!" the others turn away from it's plea. [pretending they did not hear.] Fifty small pieces in the ocean fall beneath the surface of the water, one by one. The plea unheard, but not on deaf ears, fifty small pieces in the ocean silently whispered the same plea in their minds, ["Do you know me?!"] before dipping below the depths of the dark blue.

Dead People

There's no one here except me and a bunch of dead people. They are all the people I use to know. Use to be with. Use to be family. They use to have lunch with me, dinner with me, talk with me. We use to do laundry together. Fight over whose going to pick up the grass clippings.
It's just me down here with all my dead people. Clogging up my arteries. Whispering me into deafness. Dragging their nails through my intestines. Laughing hard at my attempts to vanquish their eyes from my life with prescription drugs in the morning and alcohol at night. I don't remember if I ever quite buried them all. Of this, I am definitely confused. Because their blood still stings underneath the bed of my nails. Their screaming of my name still jolts through my brain. I can still hear their coughs, their grunts, their clearing of throats. The thought of their sighs keeps me up at night.
I'm just down here with myself and a bunch of dead people. Don't bother turning on the lights. God knows that won't change the atmosphere. I'm just down here with a bottle of Merlot five sips away from vomiting with a too truthful sad song pathetically rolling off my quivering tear soaked lips. Don't bother me. Not that anyone every bothers someone with a bunch of dead people on their mind.
(On loosing too many family members--lets be honest--to obesity they didn't have to die just yet)

Worthless

When I can't be me with you
I wonder if you ever knew
How we touch
In my dreams
With all the love
I'll never see
Look
Only to long
For what
I could live on
Like a knife
to my throat
If I ever left you
Alone
For only I will know
Everyday
What You'll forget
Once I say