Here We Go, Together.

4/24 I see into you with eyes anew Once you said what you said- What you said was true. For you found me far Away I was.  And through Layers of skin, saw hope for love. My presence had drifted Until you said what you said- When you said, I lifted Up away from the ground If just barely Like a hair pulled only by a fairy. My hand fell steadier upon your chest As you said, and I heard, just what you said. And said you where our bodies lay rest Closer words to perfection within Me wrapped in embrace. For said things wilt unless grown in grace.

5/3 Outside, inside Black, white. Glass in between You and me. Here, come in Inside the glass Into the space Out of the out. No, outside she stays- Crazy. Inside is sane In-sane. Who? It’s hard to tell. We’re separated Or so we think. By what? Glass? Yes, if only to Keep you out. But a face is a covering A faux, an image. Who, what, lies in the skin We don’t care- You’re out, we’re in. Maybe we’ve failed A true test of time The answer walked away From the glass of divide.

4/21 I decided not to read the magazine Just to hold it over my head. It seemed silly to read - words make me sweat So instead they will do what I won't regret. Because if I keep on reading I might know more. Tiny shapes called letters form life altering lines: Letters of love, lyrics for soul, purposeful signs.  So why put them in my head,rather than on top? Would I wish the risk to shift my views, plans, my pure white skin? I feel wise in this decision, but then again...

4/19 Boredom . On a day with nothing to do it seems easy to go mad. crazy-mad, that is. Not like mad that across the street there is a sprinkler. Which does make me mad- in Arizona? Really? But there has to be something I could learn, make go or sit.  And inactively await a purpose. And be bored- I am bored. I'm bored of this poem. 

3/22 In this corner you might find: a yellow butterfly, floating Styrofoam pieces, a stabbing ache, newborn somethings beginning to unwind broken glasses on the ground I'm sorry. Faint music lost, just enough smoke to blink again, Crumpled notes of remembrance found. Where the lines come together seems smooth to touch- a crease. But closer eye can see a slight jagged slit, thin as a feather. Is it dark and vast or brightly acute? Pulling apart these solid sides or eyes squinting focus  will never grant reach to what's past. Because beyond is unknown  This corner stands alone. or does it? can it? It's own existence can't be on its own. Each length connects to elsewhere. To somewhere- something- someone To touch an else. Stretching- stretching up, out, down, away! The pulling, pushing- anywhere but here. But the core, the crevice, the corner is here, folding in. Pulling back to the unanswerable opening. contradicting the outward sc