Worsened Sickness

Heavy drapes that want to be drawn.
Yet I ignore them.
The darkness feeds from it in colors.
Colors of red and orange.

Standing wasn't a clever idea of mine.
It drives the nails deeper and deeper,
into knots of my wooden head.
And the sight is not a sight.

What I see is not what I find in thought.
Colors that mesh into soup.
Chicken soup?
What is this fascination
with such a flightless bird?

A hand woven rope, rough and ragged.
It tugs at each end, of each branch.
The tree will fall soon, despite the battle;
and no one will be around to hear it.

Cluck

The shell cracks and rolls.
But the glue holds it still.
The straw pokes at my cheek,
and it itches my skin.

Let the bird fly, soar high.
I am not a chicken, you ditz.
I can too flap, yes true.
But the chains are still here.

I am not here joined.
Other half's never here.
I cry and plead
for such a half never there.

I cannot take a step forward,
yet I know where I stand.
I know not who I am, true;
but I know who I want to be.

Why don't you let me?
Why do you stop me?
I can see it ahead, unreachable;
for you cut off my wings.

My Right Ear

That sound.
Like an almost dry glass,
being rubbed with your thumb
back and forth.

Like a dog's whimper,
when you taunt him
with that bone shaped cookie
he cannot reach.

Like wiping the droplets
of fresh fallen water
off the green leaves
that got out of the shower.

What sound is that?
Why is it here?
Oh I know.
I'm deaf in my ear.

Laugh in the Face of Misery

I scoff at the turbulent clouds!
I told thee! Now kneel in thought.

Coins and coins, collectible shiny objects.
It wanes and wanes.

Where am I to go now?
After such coin collecting mayhem
and such provable terms revealed!

Off and up the mountain.
With my dog Spike, haha.
No yellow brick roads here.
Just the open ended sea.

I stand on the edge
with the wind's fiddling fingers.
And I smile.
What else can I do?

Clueless Thoughts

This box is hollow.
Shattering echoes
piercing through thick
maple cardboard.

Which end opens?
None, taped shut.
It shall leave soon
on that UPS truck.

What words these are.
Senseless yet heavy.
Pointless yet agonizing.
Like a history teacher.

Waltzing with Death

Cold empty bed.
Open cloudless skies.
There is no dinner.
There are fire pits in
a scorched esophagus.

Maple leaves floating
in the watery tears
of our soft spoken sky.
Cry baby cry,
for it's gone, gone.

Tears of placid sorrow
peal away the fear.
Emerging sadness now.
It spills lazily
ever searching, lost.

What deadline exists
besides the line
that hums the high octave;
it's permanent cry
of still quiet death.

Feel Better

Don't mix
the Betadine
with milk dear.

Even if it looks
like nice coffee.

Neosporin is not
to be in
a peanut butter
sandwhich dear.

It will not make
you feel any better.

Rubbing alcohol
will not mix with
orange juice dear.

That might kill you,
be careful.

A Haiku

I am wearing pants.
Where the fuck is my boyfriend?
My bed is chilly.

Blank Page

No specifics.
I have turned to lifeless,
achromatic color.
Dents and scratches they say.

Tis morning yes yes.
I still stand in the field.
Looking for my cow.
Stupid cow.

They request so persistently,
that I wash my hands.
I shall not wash
any dirt not mine.

No motive, no reason.
Just wake up to nothing.
You know? Possibly?
There is nothing else.

Hello hello again.
La Gazza Ladra whispers
into my ears this day.
This day of night.

I woke up to a blank page.
With nothing to fill it.
Quick! Unblock the block!
But I cannot see.

Final Lullaby

Morrow is here.
Yet I am not.
The sun rises,
and I am setting.

Last one I shall see.
Last everything today.
Final steps
Final bows.

Judgement hour
stepping closer
in it's dark heavy boots.
Rattling buckles.

I know what's coming.
It's my happiness going.
Take this, take life.
Hello Jen, hello Mel.

I bid thee goodnight.
There is hope in the hopeless.
You cannot take away
what I have already left behind.

Let Me Off

No use.
Don't bother waking up.
Each day ever blue,
droning on,
dragging me behind
by my right leg.

Who directs this play?
Such a script of havoc.
I turn from the text,
and look to the blinding lights
of the now empty stage.

Stop rowing the boat.
I'm getting quite nauseous.
Let me off
this untamed black horse
So I can find the supposedly
green blades of grass.