I try to reach out

believe it, or not…

I’m obviously not very good at it.

Same as I am with communicating

with those

that matter to me…

parts of me

are scattered into oblivion,

in the spaces

beyond the proverbial reach,

or slumbering

through open-eyed fugue,

the other part of me observes it all

in micro-fine,

the many things you’re trying to say,

the support you offer up

with a smile,

the moments you think I’ve gone,

the moments

you see I’m still seeing you,

the truth is like

the softest of cottontail,

fluttering by in the blink of my eye,

frustrating butter fingers like mine,

the moments

I’m bloodied and bruised,

the torment

I heap upon you,

the unfair things

I admittedly do,

the parts

not watching over things,

like auto pilot

doppelganger zombies,

somebody puts on my make up,

and someone else

must fold my laundry,

no plane

can get me high enough,

no breaker breaks my spirit,

nothing feels real or alive,

the diorama scene,

faulty to the breeze.