ExhaustionSitting at my desk withpen and paper in hand.A stack of poems sit bythe corner. Each onefinished. Each a piece of me.Dip the pen of my soul intomy heart's blood and begin to writeone last time before sleep.Exhausted....stumbling.....blind......deaf.....words pour out from melike from some Pandora's box.I am unable to stop them,unable to slow them....Faster, faster I write butit is not fast enough.There! One more finishedbut three more have paintedthemselves on the canvas of my mindand refuse to be silent.Screaming to be expressed,demanding to be portrayedagonizing voices I must give life.More paper...more blood...less me.Writing faster now.My pen speeds slong the paperso fast it bursts into flames.Put out the fire with my tearsand run to the keyboard.Booting up....FASTER!!!Come on, come on....Too many poems, too many voicesmust express them but which one,all at once? None at all?Typing with a sound like atrain rolling by. The keysfly beneath my f
Transparent DreamsA sea of faces surrounds mestretching to some unseen horizonin every direction imaginable.Each gazing, tauntingstaring at me (or through me).I feel very transparent.Secrets lay flayed openby an unseen assassin's knife.Goals on display behind casesof glass forged from crystal tears.Dreams paraded around for allto see. No secrecy, no privacy.Put myself between the crowdsand my transparent soul.Begging, pleading to leave me bebut nobody hears my pleas(or they don't care).After poking and prodding all mymost secret ponderingsthe crowd has had their fun and move onlaughing until there is no air left.And I have cried until the oceans ran dryfor I have used up all the tears.Fall to my knees and caressthe shattered pieces ofmy broken aspirations.I put them in a pouch and tiethe cord tightly around my heart.Never to be opened, but always hidden.Go ahead and mock me.Tell me how you despise my goals.Deny my dreams.Block my passions.I will not be restrained,I wil
Falling SicknessPaths lay arranged beforelike shattered shards ofsome cosmic mirror.Each reflecting a broken futurethat is not now, will not be,but might have been once.Just as sharp as broken glassa crimson trickle starts whereI pricked my hand on my future/past/present.Bleeding turns to healinghealing turns to indifferenceindifference turns to forgetting.Always remembering the good things,but never the solutions nor the snares.So I fall.Again, and again and again.Same stupid mistakes over and overtempting, enticing,devouring, then mocking.I know the danger.I know the fear.I know that twisted face.Why don't I listen to myself?Because of the falling sicknessand there is no cure...so I fall.
What Friends are ForLend a shoulder for your tears,hold your hand when things get tight.Help to calm your raging fearsguard your back while in a fight.Listen when you need an earHelping you in looking forwardwarning you when trouble's near.Isn't that What Friends are For?