“Let Me Have”

She was inside of him,

clutching his ribs for support.

He didn’t want her there.

She made him a machine,

a creature of habit.

This sad discord,

shifting to a loud quartet.

He dragged her to the bonfire

and the flames were screaming,

lonely and strange.

Her hair caught first,

then her rosebud mouth.

He fell to his knees.

The devil was watching.

“Afflicted”

Crossing the abyss,

where my heart sits,

waiting.

She’s weeping,

ugly,

her thick legs stretched in front of her.

Stabbed with pins,

arms behind her back.

She’s surrounded.

No beauty, just a beast.

Her eyes won’t leave my face.

She won’t give up.

I know that, because she’s mine.

What should I do?

Her eyes implore me.

Now I’m the one crying

diseased tears,

ruining,

running.

She doesn’t understand:

I can’t.

I can’t free her.

I’m not enough,

I never will be.

Can I learn to love,

the way I see?

A tightrope walk of shame,

to be vulnerable.

Her ugliness is a feat of pure strength.

I wish I was that sharp.

“Glances at Best”

I saw her the other day.

Her French lips and Italian eyes.

She was just sitting there,

and I was walking by.

So beautiful,

I wanted to see her thorns, her secrets.

But she was so red. 

And I was so hollow.

I saw her again.

Her dark, very German hair and articulate, old English eyes.

She walked right by me.

Secretive and gorgeous,

I wanted to hear her voice, her thoughts.

But she was so other.

And I felt so normal.

 

“Tawny Plumage”

The pendulum swings,

as the butterfly loses his wings.

The moon rises,

a saucer missing its cup.

The second hand chases after the minute,

a fox after the hound.

The street lamps buzz to themselves,

oblivious to anything not in their circle.

Dreams have trust issues,

so they come and go.

Attention is the prize,

a bird preening its feathers.

But nobody wins.

“Falling From Symmetry”

Safe on a tightrope,

falling from a microscope.

Drowning in a pool of stars,

purchasing our pretty scars.

Writing things on the wall,

using honey and a tiny scrawl.

Forever fighting our mirrors,

slaying those ugly little flaws.

This is how we get our claws.

Like Narcissus of old,

trapped in front of a reflection bold.

Only she dislikes what she sees.

“Barren Learning”

This culture, this society,

they claim to be the salvation.

The Saviors of imagination, the Defenders of the different.

This is a disproportion.

Creativity may be abundant,

but in education it is bereft.

They focus on plastic ideals:

facts,

dates,

and exams.

Classics are stripped of bone and sinew,

their contents concealed into bare, boring flesh.

Writing itself is murdered,

poisoned by prompts and thesis statements.

All that made it beautiful,

scattered to the winds,

marred into a generic format.