help is a cry for the desolate

there is a word
trapped in the bars of my throat
sinking slow
to the depths of my belly
heavy
heavy
heavy
in the doorway of my lungs

someone
pry it
from my sandpaper tongue
from my paper paste saliva

someone
set
me
free

Sleep Soft and Desperate

fatigue
swims
in the pools of my iris

sporadic
energy
curling in my fingers

why
should
I exist

when
existence
weighs upon my heart

delicate
sad
lost to the ravages of time

and
my
blood cries for fear

of
what
lurks in my breast

Rhythmic Repetition is Really Rather Revealing

repetition scares me
it scares me
scares
me
repetition scares me

when I repeat my letters
I worry
worry
that some will find me simple
simple

when I say what I mean
too many times
when I say
when I say
when I say
my words too many times
an abyss opens up
opens up
and it screams
it screams my words back at me

What do I do
with my repeating letters
where do I put
the overused
overexposed
syllables on my tongue
how do I console
my depreciating
punctuation
how
how do I stop the declining value of my soul

There is a word market
smelling
of paper and paste
ringing
ringing ringing ringing
with pages turning and covers singing
a stall of phrases
and a vendor for articulation

I stand on the corner
pen in hand
heart
in
my
ears
and I write
with curling lines
words that mean things
in another's eyes
I write
and I write
and I write
until these ink and paper letters
have a twin sibling each
until
each line
is identical to another
until one is the same as the other and another is a brother to a word that could be his mother and they are all being smothered by a repeat performance of one more

"words!" I cry, "words for sale!"
and in a basket at my feet, there are a dozen price tags each to words that are all the same
dollars for some and cents for most
and some
many
all
do not have a price
because I cradled them gently
and whispered their worth
where only they could hear

"words words words words words words to good homes!
words for you to sing
and words for you to love
and words
words
words
for evenings spent alone
and dinners eaten in silence
and moments eternities instances when your thoughts are too loud!"

I pitch my sales
and shout my deals
and the words in the basket
at my feet
smile sweetly
and know
that they already have a home
and that it is with me

because
I love my repeating words
that I handled with care
when I placed them there
in the basket that shows no prejudice to the spares
they are my words
I love them
and they
love
me

The Man in the Well- Opening Scene

Thunder rolls overhead, bellowing obscenities as it goes. Brash and bold and presenting its demands with steadfast resolve. The pounding of the relentless rain calling cheekily as it fades away, arrogant and mischievous.

The wind buffets the walls of the little house and the roof over her head rattles. The shadows of trees dancing wildly before her. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, announcing its master before he arrives, disgruntled and laden with more demands. More complaints. Doing his level best to cuss them out before his strength wanes and he has to retire. Exhausted from the vigor with which he has used to shout his displeasure. 

She listens to it, though she does not speak its language. Hears their calls, strains to catch their words. She knows she'd have to be lucky or insane to catch what they're saying, but it doesn't stop her from trying. I wonder why he is so angry. She thinks to herself, wrapping herself still more firmly around the small form of her son beside her. You would think he would have less resentment, he is only thunder after all. What could possibly have wronged him? 

He shouts again, closer this time. An earthshaking roar of frustration. Her little son whimpers in his sleep, and she strokes soft locks off of his forehead. Hushing the fear that fights to rise. "I'm sorry." She whispers crossly, once he has settled and she is sure he will not wake. "I was just wondering. It's not any of my business anyway. You have a right to all the anger in the world if you want."

The distant echoing grows fainter still, gathering itself for one more, half-hearted shout, before trundling off somewhere over the mountains to voice its disapproval elsewhere, the rain dying down as it goes. Calmer and quieter with no one left to impress. In the moments after, and the one just before her eyes slide shut, she wonders if maybe she's not a little insane after all. 

Time

Where I am there is no time,
No beginnings or endings,
Nor reason nor rhyme.

Everything is,
And everything isn't.
Tomorrow is in the past,
Yesterday the present.

I've been here awhile,
I've only just taken off my coat.
Oh! Is that the time?
I really must go!

The streetlamps are dark,
The shadows are white,
And though the the sun has just risen,
It's already well into the night.

I passed by a stop sign,
And walked backwards to see it go.
And when I came across a green light,
I stopped and watched it glow.

I ran alongside a turtle,
we laughed as we went,
And when I walked the aisle,
I took it at a sprint.

Backwards is forwards,
And up is falling down.
You read this poem top to bottom,
And in confusion you did frown.

So read it again!
And this time remember,
Left is just as right as wrong,
and roses only grow in December.

Leaves in the Wind

Here on the edge of the mountain, the sun sets among wheat fields that are just a golden line on the horizon. Vibrant pinks and purples and fading blues a painted mess around the sun. The city rising up behind the trees, obscuring the little houses behind it. Glittering like misplaced starlight.

We don't speak, but when I look at you, you're looking at me and I see the sunset in your eyes. I don't know what to say, what to feel, but before I can decide you smile and take my hand. Soft hands, strong hands, pianists hands. An anchor in this world that I don't understand.

You turn away, back to the sunset, and so do I. Watching the last rays of light vanish, swallowed up by the emerging stars. I imagine the sun in each and every one them. Not gone, just disguised as something else. Something beautiful and lost among the dark satin of the night. I ache thinking about it, somewhere in my chest. And even in the beauty left in the wake of the parting sun, I long once more for the day. Brilliant, glorious daylight, where no one is lost.

"It's too late to turn back." You say, voice low. It's strange that I do not startle at the suddenness of it. Perhaps I have grown too used to you. "We'll get lost in the trees."

A breeze stirs the leaves behind us, leaving something uncertain and precarious. Something deeper than the danger of the edge before us. There's something here, something frightful but I do not understand it. I cannot even find it. I do not know if it has been following us, or if I brought it within me and my lost memories but I feel it rising slowly. Responding to the call of my fear and doubt. Whispering tendrils gathering where we cannot see.

I look away, wordless. You don't say anything else, and I wonder if you feel it too. But I don't ask. I simply stand there against the shadows, longing for the light. My only comfort your hand and your breath and the certainty of tomorrows daylight.

A Pretty Picture I Found Shortly After Posting

His eyes flutter open, eyelids purple blue, dried blood cracking and flaking away. Immediately his eyes begin drifting, searching, until they find her face. Layers of confusion and worry falling away like pages turning, finally settling on that blind shining love from the day they were engaged.

"Tayu." He whispers, awestruck.

Discomfort rises. sticking in her chest and the men have gone quiet but she can still feel their presence. Awareness like needles in her back.

"You're late." Is all she can think to say. Her voice strained from the lingering tightness in her throat. She's glad for it. It masks the uncertainty.

He doesn't answer, just reaches to cup her face, fingers trembling minutely on her cheek before he kisses her. Tears spill over, dampening the kiss until it tastes of salt and the copper of blood. Coating their lips after they've separated.

"I missed you." He whispers, lips turning up at their corners, eyes bright and blue and loving, and she sobs, shoulders shaking as she folds. He finds her wrist, doesn't let go. "Shh, shh. It's okay." he soothes. "It's going to be alright."

It's not, she thinks. Because I didn't miss you. But she doesn't say it. She nods her head and covers her mouth and caresses his cheek and she doesn't say it. And she never will.