They linger outside my room I hear them exhale
as the paint peels like snow flakes falling slowly
to the floor. Its only wood mahogany it think,
"nice, cost enough. I heard them mauling the
surface cleaving at different points as if a weakness
was to give way.

They bait me to see if I would gaze upon the shadows
that linger just past the door... I touch one with my
finger seething discomfort carries over my skin.
Murmurs sing lullabies at the corner of the hinges
they seem to get hotter with every tone that settles down.
I cant seem to contemplate its words, but it sings.

I look around my sheltered room, the windows are just
a look out to nothingness, I am like a flower in need of
sunlight to blossom.  but I am withered I'm suffocating
with my own deliberation. Have you heard the same
thought repeated in angles you never realized were
possible, every word deconstructed and syringed within.


Do you realize that a room even though with its formed
angles becomes nothing but a blur, patterns in writings
that migrate along my sight of vision. I'm a mine canary
trapped in a cage, and my only escape is the wishful thinking
of when will this gas seep within and silence my yearnings.
But I still breath, they mould the features of my prison in whispers.

I throw my features in random rotations to find even a
fissure that will be a keyhole to my eventual releasing.
But where my essence tries to evacuate they burn my
sanity and I scream in oscillating repetition and they just
seem to think nothing of my afflictions. I am a prisoner
within their walls. I will consume them when they fall.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.