when someone sees your scars or cuts, do they really see?
do they see the metal pain, or do they see the physical pain?

when someone sees your blade do they see the metal that scars your skin, or do they see the words that scar your skin?

when someone sees your tears do they see your sadness, or do they see the demons running around your head causing pain where they step?

when someone sees your progress do they see you using coping skills and no cuts on your wrists, or do they see the feelings you fake and the cuts on your thighs instead?

iloveyou
without a space
there’ll be no room for mistakes
no it doesn’t make sense
it’ll make no difference

i touched your soul
and scribbled my name on it
love, you’ll never get lost again

with depression comes manipulation. you end up lying. you lie about how you feel or you let out bits but not whole truths. they believe you.
with self harm comes manipulation. you know you have eight blades but you give up five. you have twelve hiding spaces but you give up eight. they believe you.
with progress becomes manipulation. you use the coping skills and say are helping. you cut in different places. you lie about feeling better and let your emotions out somewhere else

Small shadows
of little spiderlike forms
followed the
folds of my blanket.

Terrified,
but never surprised,
or paralyzed,
I swatted hesitantly
at those imaginary
nightmares,
**** little
intangible demons.

Even after
sharp swipes
they still
moved forward,
and I retreated,
not in defeat
but stepped back
and allowed
sleep
to overcome me.

In dawn and
other daylight hours
those little nuisances
never made any appearances.

They merely
made me
question
the state
of my
sanity.

Pretty eyes,
pretty smile,
pretty hands,
pretty ***;

She handles
all those
compliments
fields all those
unwanted stares.

Some young guy
says something nice,
but when she doesn’t
acknowledge him
he calls her a
stuck up *****.

Some one
grabs her ***.

Someone
presses her up
against a wall.

Someone
raises her blouse.

Someone
intrudes
where he is
not meant to.

Now she is awkward.

Now she is uncomfortable,

Now she is untrusting.

Now she doesn’t
want to be beautiful.

I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.

Lunar illusions
reflect in
the rippling
pond,
as a swan
swims
slowly,
then
dives in
to grab
a fish that
accidentally
swam
near him.

courting the sun
  after a cool June
  in my vintner's garden
close to the southern border

carefully sipping
  his latest selection
    a good year
    you can taste it

looking out from the hill
  across the river valley
  I listen to his children
  proudly telling how
only yesterday
  they filled 50 sandbags
just in case

the deafening roar
  of an interceptor jet
  splits the air
    just for seconds
    leaves my wine glass
    trembling
  
three helicopters
  slash their way south
  and come back later

over the winding road
  on the next hill
  the last tank of the column
   disappears

we can hear
  not far away
      over there
  sounds like explosions

we enjoy the sun

Helmut opens another one
  of his treasured bottles
  and tells me
  what he will do
  if They come across
  
   he is a good hunter
and an excellent shot

I sip the clear wine
  watch how the sunlight
  lends its brilliance
  to the half-filled glass  

I feel a little bit
  like Humphrey Bogart
  in the wrong movie.

Dig deep, foot and foot
until the water leaks into a spring
as the ***** of the soil crumble
to particles that disperse

Sometimes a fierce passion awash
merged in an unending desire
a fervour of words and moments
as the time passes tick after tick

Sometimes melodies are wept and warped
weaved within the seams of the unforgotten
until they burst to shatters of glass
to the point of no reverse and return

Dig deep, foot after foot
and this pen always enlivens me
Refixing all the torn pieces
Sorting and blending all the scenes