I told you
didn’t I?
you know
I had to try…
to hold onto
my own
so indeed
and, earnestly
I let the
arrows fly…
loosed carelessly
to describe
my over-tired
and broken mind
there it was…
no doubt
all laid out
to scale
and personalized
to the very
best ability
of me –
yet, it’s trifling,
a novel compound
like your loyalty
weighing down
an anchor  
drowning me…
I tried
early on,
to say why
spelled out
in bold lettering…
to emphasize
with clarity
such shortcomings
like to mine…


Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
blowing through all the lies.

A reacquainting,
with the shadows left behind,
as those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to all I escaped from hopefully,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.


I’ve got this thing,
attached to the feathers
of my tattered, right wing;
it’s tickling and itching…
causing me to careen;
through the air,
in disrepair;
everyone down there
watching me.
I’ve got this weight,
that drags my feet
in reverse, towards my fate;
it’s beckoning and ordering…
that I bow down, and subjugate;
kiss the toes,
belonging to those;
who refuse to let me go
and be free.
I’ve got these eyes,
tuned to a frequency
that perfectly filter the lies;
barreling and swooping…
along, at their’ sides;
so invisibly,
no one else can recognize
but I see.
I’ve got this shrapnel splinter,
burrowed deeply into my skin
through summer, spring, fall and winter;
humbling, digging deep,
all it takes to make a slice, is a sliver;
moon hanging,
above the raging river
bleeding all over me.


Silly, silly me,
to once again,
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Sine Missione.

I can write so-called “poetry”,

and rhyme strange words essentially,

I can tell my whole sad story,

in prose that spit-shine defensively,

I can swim in an unforgiving sea,

breakers and barrels spin-cycling,

I can ride waves semi-professionally,

a pipeline that leaves my mind spiraling,

I can clean up and seem undoubtedly,

exactly the way everyone seems to be,

I can focus my brain’s scattered energy,

and complete tasks that are given to me,

I can turn off and on emotionally,

like a switch on a wall in a laboratory,

I can protect my childish feelings,

by detaching myself from reality,

I can recall things once lost to memory,

I can trace roots far back in my family,

I can complete a tax return accurately,

I can also lift and carry the heavy things,

I can speak several languages fluently,

I can tell a story pretty truthfully,

I can tow dead weight to shore safely,

I can sniff out the best kept secrecy,

but I can’t seem to truly comprehend,

how to get myself out of this wasteland,

my brain doesn’t appear to understand,

my body doesn’t answer to the demand,

how to accept the filth for which you stand?

how to walk away and not look back again?

how to convince myself that you are not human,

so that I can live with the mirror’s reflection.



A Better Look.

Ask me if it means a thing,

the words, the time, the memories,

ask me how it seems to be,

that my gentle soul goes cold so easily,

ask me about who I used to be,

the one who was betrayed so thoroughly,

ask how much that continues to sting,

ask about a heart that bleeds perpetually,

ask me why it is that I can’t seem,

to understand the concept of fidelity,

ask how my heart came to be so mean,

when I’ve before, been treated cruelly,

ask why it is that I behave so quizzically,

the feelings, the actions, the ADHD,

ask how you’re supposed to perceive,

such things in the face of brutal honesty,

ask me about my isolated misery,

the trust issues and embedded insecurity,

ask me to be a “normal” human being,

and I’ll tell you to take a better look at me.





Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.