negotiations are mostly difficult at mornings birth
then as she matures into treacherous day
i loosen the grip on my own hearts thin skin
mantra speaks the magic words
my hand shakes as i sign the dotted line again
understood the truth of you and my untethered existence in your universe
diligently i refrain from dispute
but accept the mortal wounds by evenings
song of sadness
years buried deep within the flesh of my eyes
but here we are
what can our relation be
the snows of ruin set atop my head
a mere empty mausoleum nursing images of the atrocities committed to a soul
and still you gaze up at nothing with such devoted stare
a foundling am i to you instead
what to say to stave off the pain of the roads ive dared to wander
yes into your eyes id smile and say no one will ever hurt you again
words a cocktail of anesthesia a wonderland never to reveal itself
my name for you is kid
i am your shadow your scout your secret service slave
kid you will never be alone again but the poison runs too deeply in my veins
good intentions this time will drive us both to a new and improved hell
where the earth is windy with dirt
never knew vulnerable was so hard
or how bright your dark side of the moon could shine
or a heart so easily torn apart
at the death of a wilted flower
thoughts of succumbing to the poison of slow kill the truth imparted at the exit of the womb how with what today can we be expected to delay decay when systems continue to thrive on the dander of ignorance it’s becoming unbearable tick tock
it’s the little poisons she thought as he spoke about trials foisted upon him as a child by the needs of selfishness and delirious desires of unbridled women his skin pocked with stab wounds stitched up in classic county hospital overworked student staff he groaned in self pity he’d forgotten why he was there in the first place we spoke for 23 minutes more then parted as patient and professional
i don’t want to be a Neruda love poem girl
i want my thoughts to be admired like the turquoise gold around the throat of a hummingbird
i don’t want a boy to be my knight in anything shiny valiant or stunning
i want him to see the blaze inside me through the holes of my Salvation Army black jeans
Sunday January city center we drink coffee and eat i wander through the paths lined with counters and men with steam tables full of tacos and paper hats from another puritanical time when under your floors we got away with naughty things and Tommy gun rounds i smell the 40s in the maize pastrami sushi air while twinkling organic trinkets catch their shines in the corner of my eyes as they move to the ceiling fans keeping my ghosts a few inches above the ground old and new we merge in agreement and dissolve in short spurts of peace
words less spoken 