I'm hearing voices once again
having visions in my head
of reflections never said
thought it could lead to reaching from the shadows
becoming translucent
no one can ever get used to that
I'm screaming into the void
obsessing on nothing
standing in front of confirmation
you won't see me no matter the distance
caught within the haze
memory fades away
living but not alive
disappearing in strides
as soon as I try to connect
awareness I soon neglect
directions I soon forget
back and trapped again to recollect

She was a mother for the first time,
she was so glad,
her life was like a nursery rhyme,
the baby was everything she had,
but she would turn suddenly very sad,
gloomy and taciturn,
everything made her mad,
and there were moods she had to learn,
something was terribly wrong,
those odd moods would last very long,
her problem was that she kept it silent altogether,
her mind compressed, her thoughts depressed,
and she felt distressed,
but she hid it all so well,
even her husband couldn’t tell,
then it was that frightful night,
terrible sight,
her moods collided,
her thoughts exploded,
her motherhood corroded,
she talked in her sleep the night before,
there was a gloomy silence and mute weeping,
baby on the floor,
and he wasn’t sleeping,
she became hysterical,
she kept crying and almost never stopped,
her sanity popped,
and she was so bent out of shape,
she fell hard in the nursery,
and realized there was no escape.

If love could save her,
He was the cure.
He never left her side;
She never spoke a word.
He just sat there waiting,
Always holding her hand.
It seemed his love alone
Had delayed her end.

But she passed on a Sunday
As the leaves took their fall,
To wilt with the flowers
When the reaper called.
Though he had stayed
And made the bedside his home,
She passed as he slept,
At night and alone.

There were cards and kind words
From those who loved and had cared.
And sympathetic smiles
From those who thought pain was shared.
But the pain of her passing
Was a hell all its own.
So he mourned in seclusion,
He mourned all alone.

He cursed God, he cursed cancer,
He even cursed his own name.
He cursed his tears that flowed through,
He cursed all he could blame.
He cursed the framed reminders,
He cursed his empty heart.
He cursed the impassable barrier
That kept them apart.

It took him months to rebuild,
To create a new life.
A much darker existence
That had stolen his wife.
But eventually he smiled,
Even though it was plain
That the hurt in his eyes
Showed he'd not love again.

Although he was lost
From the moment she died,
He'd not trade the world
For the days spent beside.
If you ask that man now
Would he do it again,
He would live through it all
To just hold her hand.

These are words from a man,
Broken and emptied.
I write these words,
And that man is me.
This is my story,
And she was my wife.
I had to lose her
To know she was my life.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I realize injurious truth
tattooed on pale canvas are illustrations
I should have never seen
and without bending I display them
on the outside of me.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I wiped myself clean
stinking of rancid perfume, oh former lovers
spectres that plague my bedsheets
when I'm beneath you saturated
by the outside of you inside of me.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I sizzled against you
whirlwind speech absorbed in clutch pillows
moisture betraying my timid refusal.
What is it that I can't beat
the power in you, subduing me.
You only pity things that come cheap.

Hunger is the cancer with a cure
bread lines are hiring open mouths.
The discarded pass with empty bellies,
an outstretched hand reaching for crumbs,
that never come.

Money is the panacea of poverty
prostitution wages are tax free.
When she opened her thighs
the world shifted on its axis,
AIDS was paid forward.
Play that on a Trojan commercial.

Freedom is an illusion
painted by white collars.
Section 8 homes are speakeasies
of the downtrodden.
Cardboard boxes are the architects *******,
and trash bin bonfires come calling me.