The Truth

I press your photos to my face.
The anger burns into my bones.
I am *worse* than half a man,
hopeless prayers,
written wrong,
worth the effort to erase.

Words were never
“Hands that held you”,
Magic spells
or silver songs.
They told a tired story
To a crowd that barely heard.

And nothing changes
that I’m lost.
Even when I dream a voice
That’s loud enough to hear,
I wake to find it dying
down to silence,
unperceived.

Wanderer

I have traveled in valleys
Darker than death,
Wasted my passion
Chasing my breath.

I lost what I came for
Running away;
What it was
I cannot say.

I’ll wander the alleys
After dawn
Until I understand
What’s gone.

Dream

I am only one stress
Of so many shed,
Wrecked on the shore
Of my own damn head.
Every decent thing has fled.

I am a prisoner.
This is my prison:
Time breaks down
In a quiet fission,
Shattering another vision
Hope had sought to grow.

I am only one man
With an empty bed,
Obliging every word I bled,
Dripping still in bitter red,
Demanding only to be said.

Dealt configuration

Disappointment points a finger
And i cant point back,
I’ve only wit unfit,
No tact.

Like the man who told me
(I was eight)
“You’re blind, you see.
An awful fate.”
A broken state makes
Perfect bate.

I was never given words
For the right debate.
If I’d just known doubt
Then belief would abate,
A plate made clear,
A letterless slate.
Instead I let it grow
And become my hate,
My only hope.
My heaven’s gate.

All I resent
Is my own free will,
The amusing ruse
I can’t fulfill.
A silent moment
Passing shrill
Every minute that I kill
Sweating ink I cannot spill.

Appoint me one more finger
To point two back.
Too many thoughts
To find their track.

Wager

A shrink once told me,
Shaking his head,
To turn from the road
That will leave me dead.
Throw down the cigarette,
Quit my friends,
Burn every bridge
That my id defends.
Pick up the cross
Or a cause instead,
To guard which beast
Is the better fed.

But I’ll make you a wager:
I bet my soul
That deep in him
Is a hand-shaped hole
From so many hands
That in fear he’d fold,
As “wise” became
“he who shall guard his gold.”
No road goes
Beyond my time.
Bright or long,
The soul will shine.

Nowhere

I’ve taken twenty years of trash
Down to the curb.
Whistled the gamut
From sad to absurd.
Sick of sameness
Stillness stirred:
The second-hand joy.

I can almost remember
All that sleep,
All that pure
And pastless peace.
Quickly
Did that slumber cease
And angels leave, annoyed.

I’ve shaken twenty years of dust
Off of my coat,
But can’t shake the feeling
I’ve no place to go.
And that is the saddest status quo
For a wandering mind like me.

I wanna go back
To the golden days,
When high on trees
Meant climbing for days.
And trails were better than blunts to blaze,
And to hurt was to scrape
My knee.

I want to remember
All that hope
Tugging at me,
Real as rope.
The dreams I never had
But wrote,
Or never wrote
But tried.

Grant me a wish
And I’ll fish them out
Of fear’s hard grip
In the sea of doubt.
And they’ll be treble-hooked like trout,
Anywhere they hide

Follow an “if” too far,
To the brink
Of a dream so heavy
It can only sink.
Tantalizing is the drink,
And thirsty is the fool.

Here’s to twenty more years
Kicking cans off the curb,
Whistling Dixie,
Hope unheard.
Give me a chance
And take my word,
Fate’s as funny as cruel.

Littera

If my words are unkind,
You disdained them!
If my words lie,
you taught them how.
These thoughts are born of you,
Tied to us forever,
No matter if you hear
Or care.

If my words bear bitterness,
Spit them out.
It wont be long before they’re found.
If you close your eyes to me,
That much brighter
Truth will shine.
That much longer
Is it mine.