“(In) Over My Head”

don’t listen to

a    word I say it                        cantbreathecantbreathe         

doesn’t seem                             don’t believe me / malignant  

like the t r u t h                         self – my mind – destruct

is truth a thing I want it to be or is that just me

                                                               m     ind reading?   remind me.

  1. existing
  2. feeling           expressing how y o u         were feeling

conversation memory ; conversation breathing a practice in       breath.

                                                          I’m trying          I           swear

this may-be

dying                                               the words are blurry again


obsessive                stop.                      r



I’m crying vulnerable                        up

cantbreathe feelings                  make your mind               over

c h  oking me here/                                                   up           whelmed

keeping me here                         the mind’s make                      fear

damage malignant ; contagious is this what I am  un hinged is a dangerous

thing to be                                                           figure out how to

                     this mind viper                             breathe and sani

my hands are dirty                                           ty will follow I

                                          somebody p              swear I won’t

                                                              l               danger to my                                 

                                                              a              self I can do this

                                                              n             my arms strong

                                                               t             but not l      ong

                                                               e            enough


“Furnished Blush”

One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.

He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.

She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.

It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.

He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.

“Not a Second”

There was Shakespeare on his tongue,

and a butterfly in his lungs.

Both made his dangerous.

Both rendered him unloved.

He was afraid

of what to say,

of what to feel.

It all got stuck in his throat,

a clump of paper and honey.

Nothing was easier to swallow.

Innocence was one thing,

but courage was another.

To pick up the sword,

to shout into the abyss.

He was new to living,

but he didn’t want to waste it.

The hilt was supple in his palm,

so were the words to that song.

The one in the back of his beautiful mind.