Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.

Funny how that’s what we do with people too.

Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.

And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - cuts me short of worth.

I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.

Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.

Concrete coffee grounds — stapled receipts;
messages from exes you’re not ready to delete.
It’s quiet now, filled with dead conversations —
a well-kept cemetery.
Ceremonies in eyeballed crowds, proclaiming
falsehoods of love in soft languages.
Meets and greets, all speaking the lies we
feed ourselves; sandwich boards worn like identity.

Some days, bored with myself, as I draw away
from a good time like a thin sketchbook filled
with half-drawn, abandoned things.
Pulling my heart from my chest like a drawer.
An artist, talking to his shadows —learning from
my old self like it’s shadow.

Avoiding those who tease with wet mouths of lies,
but kiss with dry tongues. Parched —
but maybe just too thirsty for love.
Being caught in a drought: a crumb of eye crust,
tinted with dry grass.
Still, I’d set myself on fire just to be noticed —
willing to be her wild campfire.
But even those fires need feeding.
You can’t give it all until you’re ash —
and watch them move on to another flame.

Making you feel not wild enough.
Staring at the ugly person in the mirror —
and what’s left after the smoke clears?
It's no longer a game of smoke & mirrors

I’ve got finger stitches — love handed me needles;
the attentions of spiraling vines; some bear grapes,
but not all are ripe with maturity, some just needless.
Burning every bridge while the sky stays divinely nested,
and I’ve tied these knots around my tired heart,
left admiring birds of a feather — but never flying
south together — all bested.

They press your buttons just for their luck to press —
dim suggestions also light up the road to regret
Lessons in subtle form and silent —whatever mistakes
you walk into and out of, never forget their steps.

Hiking with joy into the last light of sunset; yes, we can
fall in love like the sun falls behind a mountain crest —
rising bright by morning, but crying in the dark —
perhaps this isn’t love yet.

And that’s okay.

I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet depression only needs to whisper in an ear.

Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
Booked in the library of time; days sitting on a shelf.

… waiting to be read

Let me stay shelved a little longer— reading up,
leading up, dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…

Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
misunderstood!