I think I was pretty once,
A really long time ago–
–time has stretched on since.

It was before I stopped cutting my hair
And grew out straggled ends resemblant of straw,
Vacant, desolate tree branches in winter,
Dead or dying,
Certainly no longer caring.

It was before I stopped smiling,
Lips dried out and permanently pressed
Into a rigid line,
Laugh-lines faded from lack of use,
And dimples that haven’t seen daylight in decades.

It was before the storm clouds
Rolled in over my blue eyes,
And with them demons
That gluttonously gorge themselves
On any ounce of light
That tries to break through,
Dark ravines hanging beneath them
Against skin that’s abandoned all color
And life.



I am tired
Of getting out of bed
And the heavy darkness
That hangs beneath
My foggy eyes
When it’s been another night
Of the wrong kind of sleep.
I am tired of showering
Only to drag my feet
Through pits of mud
All day
Every day.
I am tired of trying
Or caring
About what happens if I don’t.
I am tired of pretending
Like all of this shit
Adds up to some larger goal,
A bigger picture
That I can’t see
And am tired
Of having to imagine.
I am tired of the zombie
That stares back at me
In the mirror each morning,
Not energy, not happiness,
But motivation
To keep fighting
To stay awake
When I have just grown
Of everything.


As I travel,
Two lines unravel
Like a scarf,
That’s not been knotted
At the end.
Hypnotic is the pattern
My feet follow after,
In rhythm
With some song
In my head.
Alone, I’m not lonely,
As birds chirp around me,
Their melodies,
I’ve not heard
In years.
Or perhaps I have heard them,
And simply ignored them,
Too caught up
In my own
The buzz at the back
Of my mind has relaxed.
My muscles
Their tension.
The caress of the breeze
Puts me at ease,
As I follow
The labyrinth’s
Around each twist
Away, I let slip
From my mind.
And as I enter
The mandala’s center
New answers
And peace
I find.

No Time

I used to wonder:
If everyone on Earth
Stood still,
Held their breath
For one minute,
Has any time
Actually passed?
We have not aged.
We have not moved.
And if there were one person
Who did not,
Who walked through the statues,
And observed the stillness,
Does time only pass for them?
Or does their pushing time
Cause it to pass for all of us?
Do our eyes following them
Across the road,
Their movement against the stillness
Drawing our attention,
Our energy,
Cause us to move
More than we intended?
Does it break the stillness for all of us?
Or maybe they age just a fraction
More than the rest of us have.
Even though we all
Experienced that moment,
We all experience it differently.
Is it our thoughts
That prove the passage of time?
Is it our heartbeats,
That we cannot force to stop?
Is it the fact
That we were there,
That we do remember,
That we did experience it,
That prove
That the Earth did not stop spinning,
Our clocks did not stop ticking,
And all other life on Earth
Continued on without us?
Or will  it never be more
Than a memory,
Of the time
There was no time?


Is a funny thing.
It can make darkness
Appear bright.
Shadows reflect across horizons
Into rainbows.
But do not be deceived.
Just as darkness
Appears lighter
And more comforting,
The monsters hidden inside
Are illuminated
As you draw near,
And their shadows
Stretch before you
Growing larger and larger.
Even across the horizon,
Where they would appear
As colorful arcs,
You may never find
Where they reach the ground
Around you.
Instead they dance
In front of you
And behind,
So that you are unsure
Of which way you should run
To escape the illusion
Laid out before your eyes
As beauty.
Perhaps, it would be better
To simply see them
As they are,
So that you
May better face them
With a clear sight
Of what needs to be done.

These Hands: Part II

So many stories
These hands could tell.
Each line has its own.
Some may be smaller,
But they are never
Any less important.
A reason to reach out,
A reason to clench,
A reason to grab,
A reason to point.
Each and every action
Has shaped these  hands,
Molded them.
The beauty of these hands
Is not in perfectly clear
Or smooth skin.
It is in the details.
It is in the stories behind
Every scar,
Every crease,
And every perfect
That has fitted these hands
To the person.

These Hands

These hands,
The ones covered in blisters,
Type endlessly.
These hands,
Skin split across every knuckle,
Have no desire to be beautiful.
These hands,
Covered in scars
From each and every
Past mistake,
Will never strive
To be anything less
Than strong
And courageous.
These hands,
Skin stretched and worn,
Are tired of being judged
By physical traits
Because these hands,
Cuticles dry and flaking,
Nails short and uneven,
Have never had the luxury
Of having long, manicured beauties
Glistening at the end of each finger.
These hands have worked hard,
To be master violinists,
Strings pulling at the skin,
Nails always being too short
To accidentally brush a string
That would throw off the harmony.
These hands have worked hard
To be brilliant writers,
Cramping at half-hour intervals,
But never breaking from the rhythm
Of pencil scratching along parchment.
These hands have worked hard
To be expert artists,
Covered in paint
That took weeks to wash away.
All this,
These hands have worked so hard for,
So why are they looked upon
With such disgust
Instead of their creations,
Listened to with passion,
Read with insight,
Examined thoughtfully?
These hands
Have never striven to be beautiful,
Only worked hard
To be mocked,
Trashed for their appearances,
Instead of admired or critiqued
On what they gave up their beauty for.