dear reader

don’t pull at my words

because they’re meaningless

shells of ghosts and spirits

my heart is a wasteland

and it’s unkempt and unsafe

the vines that live there have started

they choke the light out and i’m blinded

but what do you expect of a girl without eyes

so far-sighted that the present is always the

hardest sell

and a blink, that’s all it takes

and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn

the safest of strategies really, because

these notions of silly lag, i don’t subscribe

and you do

but i am not there and i cannot be that kind

i am from another time and place

and my fear doesn’t exist in the realms of others

untethered and most shirk because i know my mind

the cost of resolution, millions and who’s prepared

for that black tuesday

a depression filled with numbers and figures

because that’s the best way to work it out

to walk over the mountain with pen in hand

holding the paper at its highest

no one trailing, and certainly no leader

scent and feeling my guide, and it’s off, always

the forest not always kind to the dweller

the trees losing their foliage and it’s drowning me

and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago

when i died-when i folded, because that was best

then, but that’s what the brave one does, folds and ties the string

suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen

and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel the

sun on exposed wounds

blankets caskets of sorts

breathing from below a clotted dirt cage

and whose lungs can do that

what kind of filtration provides light when there’s so much


the easy answer, none. there isn’t one-it’s best to make one

it’s best to start again, to keep going, the mountain’s peak

miles away, maybe never to be reached

and maybe that’s the point, because there’s no up, there’s no down

it’s just this, the trek through miles of useless wood

my feet caught up on blackberry brambles

and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless

as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off

when the sun pokes harder

i am weak and i know this

my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry

an endless cloud of haziness that’s only settled

when altered, so who’s to blame

for self-inflicted wounds and piercings

take ownership i say and blame myself

knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart

are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal

repayment for my own infliction upon others

basic notations, because when i’m not good enough

nothing ever is, and it doesn’t matter

stray from the flock, create the rules, do as i please

those that push back still will, they’ll shunt my light

they’ll remind me of why i tunneled away

seeking safety-and i’ll retreat, as is form and expected

always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being hurt

and it’s easier to swallow that elephant whole

to take on the blame, to blame myself

the constant knowing

and the desperate feeding of a monster

that will die in the dark

Originally published at on June 12, 2016.

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