We thought of ourselves as sensitive –
So intuitive to the sounds of
Other people’s sadness that we
Felt it as our own;
Like we were testing to see how much
Sadness one body could hold.

We called ourselves writers –
The kind who wrote poetry about love and
Hopelessness while sitting in
The front row of history class;
Secretly hauling around notebooks and pens,
As we dragged our flimsy lives behind us.

We diagnosed others’ depression –
While remaining purposefully blind to
Our own trains of thought;
Which coincidentally always
Seemed to be moving along without
Any tracks.

We categorized everything with
Adjectives in our heads, and
Black ink on paper, but it never
Seemed to be enough –
There was always, always
Something else.

Today,
We wander back and forth from
Who we were, to
Who we are, to
Who we will be,
And most of the time,
We can’t tell the difference.
We are still writers,
And we never stop thinking of love.

There is always, always
Something else.

I am not afraid,
but interested to see
what happens today.

Coffee first thing,
better make it a double
for the morning rush
and that train that expects me.

Closing eyes on the journey
trying to accumulate
another micro minute of
peace
maybe the silence kept me all night,
with ideas on how to change.
Or I'm overworked by the drive
that will buy an escape to freedom.

We closed our eyes
as it's too depressing to see,
too numbing to watch,
but if hearing is the last sense hanging on
then announce on our speaker
that today is not just another,
that there is something different,
something hopeful
to come back out of our heads from.
let us feel more

I feel like screaming,
maybe to cause some confusion,
so an emotion creates something
other than familiarity.
Yet more papers turn
as the melancholy deepens,
unconscious
or 20:20  
the train doors open anyway,
to close,
as though destiny decided to accept
waiting.
Just for a few more stops anyway
Tapping on phones in disconnectedness,
engaging away from that moment
as blinking just don't know where to be
sitting facing such strangers.
Nobody look at me!
fingertips planning movements
of where One shall have to be,
when these doors of limbo re-open.
Where are all those travellers!

I walk behind,
a que of single file
and with every step
I long to run through
and against this one way system,
possibly naked
to provoke a smile
if I'm lucky
But the moment isn't opportune
I guess I will do it one day
On a day I will swear
that I will never feel enslaved
by the weight  
of obligation gripping my sole.   
Marching up stairs
with images of arrows,
follow this direction
is the wrong kind of sign
Steps continue upward
as though a continuous metaphor.
And soon I'll take my chances.

August was a turtleneck that didn't fit.
Arrested at the crown of the head,
overheated gasp.

Don't you think- she thought,
I see the irony in everything I do?

Pressing ruthlessly against the yield of flesh,
probing against the pale underbelly, measuring
the distance between skin and bone.
is it better now? Is it better?

Imperceptible white ribbons at
the curve of the thigh, a bow tie atop
the gift of a new healthy body
swollen against the wrap.

I hate... I hate myself. Feels all wrong-

She eats her dinner and
the food digests in her brain.

Healthy, now? Is this-

Healing?

I hold tight to my locket
Splotches of grey clouding  my vision
I wonder if my eyes are falling out of the socket
And I think with such terrifying precision
Rapid expansion and contraction
My breathing is out of sync
And its starting a chain reaction
I'm sliding toward the brink
I hate this hospital bed
I hate this room with its sickly white walls
And the ever-pressing reminder of the dead
That sometimes pass down these halls
Nobody talks straight
Always just euphemistic *******
I need someone to translate
I want to quit
But I won't, I can't
To sever my ties
To uproot my plant
That would only quicken my demise
I will hold fast
And hope that it can last