Hugh

Wishes made on rocks falling from the sky, luminescent and rare. Seriously though?

Literature lied; the storytellers, dissatisfied and cut apart, spoke into the sky without hope

and found that missing piece in the book of false, yet to be written, but thought fondly of.

Now I sit, broken like a bottle of liquor impatiently opened by one running away.
My hero and princess are estranged and bitter, because they have seen
how the real story has ended long after the book is shut. One thing, only one thing!

To: (see that light, the fire, the passion…name him…be proud of him)

I would take back every selfish action for that one glimpse.

Solitary Confinement

Is this the way things are going to be? A cold pane of glass, a handprint, and a reflection?

The rain falls: a celebration for some, a tragedy for others, but, apathy and loneliness. I

forget to breath sometimes, my meals are unappetizing. This is not a needle that points to

direct to the right path, because it points to me, accusingly, high up, and darkly robed.

The upward lines on my face cannot be rewritten; a tumultuous hurricane cycling inside is
abated by the shine of my eyes, and the imagined look of the one that will carry

all that I have- does not exist outside of this body.

I welcome the one that can –peace be still- call off the war, end the suffering, tame the beast…

sleep peacefully at last.

Walk of Shame

I.

Your gait is the opposite of correct, stumbling, eyes looking down, watching each step.

Your arms folded in close, tight, guarding against all that is out there waiting for you.

What did you whisper to your pillow as the tears streamed down your face?

Where did you throw the pieces of all your shattered and broken dreams?

II.

That night bit deep, and your youthful experience was not complete.

Studying the behavior of your peers, you mirrored and reciprocated.

Only wanting love, only wanting connection, only wanting calm.

You chose to twist yourself, malleable, into something you're not.

What you received you did not want, and now it electrifies your every thought.

It's cold outside, but not that cold. You realize it's simply a lack of emotive warmth.

Who will dress you now and take you across that threshold? There is one that I know,

who will meet you there, and hold you until the hurting stops?

III.

I walked with you, each step more painful than the last, and I know your hurt.

I have been to the top of the mountain and looked down on the expanse.

I knew you then too.

Although you can't look in my eyes for you have mummified yourself in guilt,

I am aware of you, and my cause for concern led me to take a walk of shame myself.

Sharp Corners

Hands created to create are torn, bloody, and sore.
Brick by brick you build the wall,
and separate yourself from the you that used to be.
Like a murky water reflection that is constantly disturbed,
the ripples never-ending, you find no peace.

Driving your mental fingernails in deep,
you crave blindness, but the sight is always there.
Stains like rust tattoo your near transparent cheeks,
displaying the pain that has melted from your eyes.
My arm bends in a way, curving around to hold,
and it's strong enough.

Capsaicin

Invite me into your quick and solitary, experiential ways, I beg.

I felt that burn, only slightly, regionally accustomed and glass eyed.

Drunk on a druid's herbal draught, mesmerized at the winter solstice.

I have seen what I am not supposed to; I have tapped the invisible line.

Words cannot explain the images and this side doesn't seem real enough.

I dove in, submerged, letting myself sink, swimming towards the bottom.

It's not that I am discontent, but I need things transparent; darkly luminous.

I don't fall, catch myself, but I do run, and, at times, I save the dear to me.

There are foreign places where people often walk these trails with me.

Sadly, though, it is only because their taste is not refined enough.

Me, I live for, the thrill of, the next rabbit hole, but unlike the girl

I am in control.

Passive

Old. Weathered wood stripped by storms and battles.

Torn. Stretched cloth mildewed and stained.

Restless. Never a peaceful inland repose.

Laden. Always another one to carry.

Gracefully missing the mountains of the deep.

Carefully leaning against the moon's urgent pulls.

Gnostically aware of the twisting cyclones below.

Fearfully passing the slumbering aqueous beasts.

I get past, though obstacles inhibit me.

I stay afloat though the waves crash against me.

My heading straight though my course, redirected.

I am afraid, not, though enemies around (me).

Salt scented air, sweeter at moontime, cooled

by polar ice making way in buoyant waters.

Suntime is for sight seeing, but with night eyes

I traverse the liquid plane, and dream, always.

Indifferent

I didn't take advantage of your inquiring call.
I rushed it, trying to get out everything that
I wanted to say. You intrigue me
like an ancient king's tomb, forgotten,
many mysteries left to uncover. Like a blanket
wrapped around a sleeping child, securing
what is precious underneath? A heart?
maybe if left intact. I would be a better man.