Flight

One day I will fly
My eyes touch the horizons
and soon, so will I
My wings, though clipped
will grow
And the sun, though eclipsed
still glows

My Own

My own moon
my scattered stars
the bright lights that
make the night less dark
A warmth that does not burn
but finds me
when the fog creeps in

Hamartia

Ah, my Achille's heel
liquid gold
It goes down so smooth
leaves so little to remember
But there are ugly days
where I try to pull back
and I fall flat
Stale beer and one cigarette
rusty nails inside my head
Loud voices and bright lights
pounding headache
Can't recall my middle name
was it "trouble" or was it "useless"?
I settle on "fuckup" when they ask
Mugshot, moneyshot
It all feels the same
Humiliating
It lands you in the same place
a cold cell, within yourself
I can't blame it
I fall back into it
every day I think of it
and every night I dream of it
Yes, my fatal flaw
It will kill me

You

Yes, I see you
peeking through your lashes
Yes, I hear you
your lips move and I can
feel you
quiet laughter like
fingers on my spine
I watch you and I think:
I know you
The curve of your cheek
color of your hair
so much like mine
You have a look in your eye
that is hard to define
It says:
Yes, I see you
and
Yes, I hear you
and
I wish I did not know you

Dream Catcher

The downward spiral is an easy one to march.
Recently I've been plummeting down as though propelled by wings,
darkly feathered ones that span greater than my desire for survival.
I've been lulling myself into this false sense of complacency.
I'll tell myself it doesn't matter how far I go,
as long as I can still function day to day,
still put out an outward appearance of being "there," of being "present."
They say that I'm destroying myself,
like I've just now passed the marker that separates
simple negligence from active obliteration
of self.
I don't want to tell them that I purposefully chose this path.
That the reason the downward spiral is so fast and so easy
is because every step is greased with the fat
of a thousand good, solid arguments.
At least, they sound good for a little while.
I'll admit that I have my days where I look back,
and remember where I've come from.
Days where I want to shed my guilt like a second skin,
and believe in the gift of dream-catchers,
that can pluck the nightmares from your mind.

Faces

It was quiet
until it made a noise
like a gunshot
It tore the air
like it might through
flesh and the
pounding
in so many ears
I watched and said
nothing
I was simply a
bystander
Nothing to say and
no words to add
A typical woman
and a
"stereotypical"
man
I felt the need to speak
but words felt
redundant or
overly simplified
It was your everyday funeral
of the unknown
I shed a tear for her
the woman whose face was
beyond my recollection
Goodbye
I will dream of you
of that I can promise
Hello
Goodbye
I miss you
and
you were loved

Blood

Tonight I will trace the lines upon the ceiling. Perhaps they will lead me somewhere.
Answers could be hidden anywhere. Absolution is another thing entirely. It is a completely different animal, one that I don't want to dwell on for too long, for fear that my own sobs and sighs will
awaken things that are best left forgotten. Instead I consider adding another line to those I already possess: ones that remind me, day after day, that there is nothing in life that comes without a price. I wonder how hefty a bounty this mistake of mine will fetch. In my mind's eye, I can see bruises blooming, and my tongue remembers the taste of blood.
It does not seem like enough.

Love

Love transforms us all.
From a slimy thing to something winged,
or perhaps something that flies
to something that is tethered.
It all depends on perspective.
Are you someone positive?
Or are you self-destructive?
All fair questions when you feel torn
between two selves.
When you can envision so many heavens
but you are caught within so many hells.
Pick a side:
is it easy? Is it fair?
What philosophy do you adhere to?
Do you love smashing the pretty things,
or would you prefer to plant seeds in tiny rows,
so far from yourself that you can believe
they might actually grow?

The Hole

I keep digging deeper, feel the grit under my nails, the flecks of earth on my face. How wide must I make it, how many feet down? There's just so much that needs to be buried here, trapped beneath the surface of the world. Maybe the damp and the darkness will smother all these things that live inside me. I can't give them room to crawl back out, mustn't let the weight be too light, or they will find me again. Sneak under the covers and pool beneath the sheets, where the whispers become roars and silence is no longer alive but in the furthest corners of my mind. I feel mad, out here in the dark, a mock villain. There is no explanation that could be given but that there were too many secrets piling up. Far too many to simply dust beneath the carpet or hide under the bed. They had become like people, like false-friends, voices so loud they'd reverberate within the walls of this room over and over again, warping until they became new thoughts, new secrets.
"Dig deeper," I say to myself, "keep digging."

The Last Light

My body wakes
to loud voices
The world is dark
and my heart aches
in ways I no longer
understand
My lungs are bruised
I swallow smoke
and not air
Blind, I run
confused
I seek my one bright light
my last light
in my darkness