Casualties (working it out still)

We are all casualties of time and war.
Some of us hide our scars,
Others turn them into tattoos and worship every mark.
The clock ticks and I only hear chains rattle.
Each day another minute is really taken away and every freedom
only appears to be freer when it is becoming more fabricated and fictional.
I can smell the smoke and see it before it rises over the horizon,
but I will never know who lit the fire.


We are casualties, who are really ghost soldiers,
fighters with imaginary swords,
dying for our blinded fathers
who have taught us to see too much color
and killing for the words that have been marked on us
before we were anything to mark.

We are casualties, I told God.
And I knew since I was just a small child
that with time I would only bear more scars
and have deeper wounds that would never close.
That I would look into the eyes of strangers
and first be afraid. And next feel sorrow.
That I could hold out my hand, but know it could be cut off.
And that love wears out, but pain only incubates and regenerates.
That I will cry inside until I die for the false belief that there can be unity
and peace between two souls.

We are casualties underneath the armor.
Our eyes look innocent, but if you look close
they are broken up with little cracks and imperfections that let light in.
These eyes are blinded by many skies.
Blinded by God’s words that they never heard themselves, but were given as hand-me-downs.
And blinded again by the distant screams of the wounded who seek revenge from lives before.
We blindly walk on a planet that is stale and has hardened,
sealing in tears, blood, and other fossilized ammunition.

We are casualties and we continue to walk among the wreckage.
We invent what we can only conceptualize as beautiful,
painting beauty mostly at the expense of another.
There is a war always already waging even when we think we're cleaning up.
Yet we hold on tight to things that allow us to sleep at night
As we dream in worlds that don’t exist.

Grasshoppers and an Opal Rose

Green dreams
rest in a garden
where grasshoppers
are as common
as blades of grass.



Opal roses grow
with emerald stems
sparkling in the daylight
as the sun coats my skin
with a warm silk covering.



These red lips
cant help but to
compulsively release stories
on the exhaling Z’s
stirring a still breeze.

I am a Dreamer

I’m a dreamer
Strangers sleep in my living room
At night I write about the places
they travel to in their sleep
as I morn for the seashells
that sacrificed themselves
when they went to die on my window sill
I can pretend this room is a deserted ship
and it has run aground

Under the moon I dig my feet into the sheets
like silky white sand
Here I am with my pen
lost on an undiscovered island
I hear the rain and I am put into a trance
Never before have I been so fascinated
by raindrops running down my bedroom wall
They streak the paint and give this space some history
There are snoring sounds that shake me
free and my eyes grow heavy again
I let them fall
And run off with the strangers
I am a dreamer

Escape

The dreamflies get louder as I get closer to you.

I can’t control my fantasy to runaway with some one I know nothing about.

His eyes are mysterious, but familiar

They appear in my dreams. Over. And over.

Whispering, seducing my escapist tendencies.

The Walk of a Stranger

Empty hands fly free
as butterflies
towards a sky that is open and deep
while walking familiar paths
remembered from dreams
or stories my elders once told

Talking to myself,
I pretend to ignore the dark whispers
from hallow and rotten trees
and I begin to speak
to the crickets to drown out
this reality

Under the moon
I wrap myself in imaginary quilts
dreaming of a purple mountain
in the distance
and in the morning I find myself
holding onto the earth tight
after falling asleep to close to the fire

The sun slowly rises
gradually prying my eyes open
This morning
I watch the leaves
as they fall from my trees
slip through the cracks
in my brown eyes
and I realize
that I am a stranger again
naked and cold

Swimming in the Dark

In my darkest night
You let me swim
In my black bay
Of solitude

Mourning

I see cemeteries
in the patterns of
the cushions on the couch
There are no floral embroideries
only death lilies
in distant funeral homes
that I believe
may be planted
in my nose.

Wearing black,
I am invisible,
a chameleon
on this couch.
I mourn.
I crumble into
my own rubble.
I hear them as
they question my rationality
and wont turn off the lights
that sting my wounds
but they don’t try to help
incapable of clearing these red eyes,
afraid of my pain.

I lay the fetal position
dreaming of head stones and dirt
I close my eyes and I am clawing
at the top of a coffin
covered in mud
in the rain.

Passion is my Poison

Passion is my poison

Under a dim light
My thoughts bubble and fizz
They glow neon blue
Get me drunk
In front of you

Passion is my poison

I write words at the rate my heart pumps blood
Mine have no rhythm or pulse
But they have a soul
A spirit with no plan in mind
No concept of time

Passion is my poison

And it turns my insides all different colors
A mood ring or a healing stone
I once thought I was a witch
Now I am convinced I am just passionate

Passion is my poison
The ocean moves me
And the leaves on the trees make decisions for me
A beautiful pair of eyes captivates me
And I often seem stoned when I’m sober

Passion is my poison

And I crave strange feelings
As most people crave chocolate or cheese
There is no luck.. Only fate
And my soul feels and sees things from other worlds

Passion is my poison

I can’t sleep at night
Some thoughts take time to come to a boil
And bubble over
There are intense feelings that have always incubated in my chest

lost

Sea-tears
Fishing-lines
Bait-lies
Fish swim lost in time
Lucky-Fish
Swim under the
Seaweed that reminds me of
The kitten eyes
That chased birds
Across canals
Holding killies in my palms
Calling out into the night
Like an animal that lost its way

Gaps

Between your lips and my ears there is a nameless place- a disconnect-
an empty space_ one where thoughts are vacant with only remnants…. letters left behind by my free loving sentences that couldn’t see the dark gaps that were clouded with grays, blues, and deep greens:::_:::_:::_
These are empty words calling my name and I often forget to call myself__when you ask me about then and tonight I can’t recall now.