You lash out at me
Hoping to make me weaker
Hurt by the blade of your words
As tears fill my eyes
The first crack starts

"I'm fine I promise"

Knowing these lies
That they keep you away from me

I am stone

I lie to myself to block you out
Another fight, fills the air like fog
Ah yes, another tear to a company my eye
I hold back my anger
This volcano building inside of me

I am stone

The anger keeps building inside me
But I suppress it, to hold it lock and key
More fights break out
More deadlier than the last
Each time the cracks becoming deeper

I am stone

Now I've blocked you out
No longer respond to what you say
You yelling I'm like talking to a stone
Hoping to get through, but it's not working

Because I am stone

Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****,
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

my wife,

you are my flesh,
within your flesh:


            (my son)

who sleeps within you.

i love you that you are me,
and i am you;
inside your body
which sleeps beside me.