Whether carved from stone or spun from light,
every heart bends and cracks,
its pieces spilling like broken planets
into the gravity of empty space.

Please, let me stay gentle,
do not force me to cry –
raging into battle in a voice that isn’t mine.
Folding into a wooden mask,
day beyond day,
you never would guess that I am afraid.
Head down through the blizzard,
I march as I must,
fighting envy and heartbreak, reduced to mere lust.
Please, let me stay gentle,
or at last you will see,
my face for the world is not really me.
One day it will splinter,
and all that remains,
is a pair of dead eyes, carved by years of pain.
I don’t think I’m made
for this harsh, noisy world,
but my quiet pleas for silence have long gone unheard.
Please, let me stay gentle,
let me sing with the birds,
my voice in its softness at last would be heard.
With the peace of kindness,
we could move through our lives,
if only we all were a little more wise.
I’m not made for fighting,
for the pressure and hate,
just forced into the conflict by some perverse fate.
Please, let me stay gentle,
you’ve said that you care,
yet the blizzards continue, and I am still there.
It’s crushing my core,
having to every day be,
someone so completely unlike me.
Please, listen to me,
no more bathing in blood.
Please, let me stay gentle,
then I’ll know that I’m loved.

i haven't been myself
for quite some time -
different versions,
lingering as long
as appropriate
(or long overstaying
their welcome),
shuffling from one
skin to the next,
one pain
to the next -

we redress,
nurse the wounds
(we've gotten
good at this),
a facsimile
of a person
until i find the real one  

but being a person
at all
these days
is like repeating the same
song, the same wave,
the same splotch of starry sky
through the kaleidoscope
of every open eye
bleeding together
into hazy nothingness
and everythingness

it's been silent ever since
and i'm not sure
i'd recognize self
anymore than she'd
recognize me
one and the same

but only by name.

are you still
there?
i noticed
your silence,
villain disguised
as victim
brought to your knees,
brandishing
your bloodied hands
as a casualty,
like they aren't
the weapon
like you didn't
walk your greedy
little fingers up
inside my rib cage
and take it all.

the sense of urgency that applies to everything.
the fast and stylized flow of contemporary culture.
hurry harry capitalism.
where there is urgency, what can be sustainable? breathing?