Wearing Hearts

I thought that I wore my heart
on my sleeve, but now I lay
aside myself and I feel
not my hands cupped pillowing,
softening the irate shakes and
throbs that accompany the violence
that is my heart melting from the inside
out through my watery, blurred, vision.


Playing Host

At first you wanted a friend,
I obliged, time is money however
and I paid the price being around you
as our friendship evolved, parasitic.

Next you wanted knowledge, to act:
how why when where what who in addition to
every other fact that I could divulge, and you judged none,
but echoed them one after another into others ears.

Finally you robbed the food from my garden
as I now chomp down on empty cold steel
grinding my teeth all the while as I saw you,
fill yourself on what I had sown.

I stand now, supported by weak limbs devoid of strength
to cut you off, but you have already found a new host.

Mismatched Socks

My mismatched socks personify the
endless anxiety of a
preoccupied mind
now made conscious of the
dissimilarities adorning my feet.
Severely diminishing the
possible scenarios that had
exhausted my thoughts
about our first meeting.

Hot Air Balloon

I glide under the sky-scraping looks of
others as I partially inflate myself
with a heated sorrow, giving
rise to mere momentary self-loathing, for
a prolonged anger would cause
the entirety of my vessel to
catch aflame and burn alive.


Society has forced fed me,
the general rules and regulations that
culture our daily lives, consequently
as I grew older I felt afflicted; sick,
succumbing to the sour words that
stick in the back of my mind as they
slowly slide down my throat and into my vocabulary
defining unitarily what and who I am, but wait.
I regurgitate, vomiting up defenses and
reasons for my being me and
pleading the case of a natural cause
for this inhumane murder of right vs. wrong
to the judge evidenced by
passing glances, second looks, and intolerant words.
To no avail, I am given life in prison by being found,
But my reprieve is my aversion to
the negativity on society’s spoon,
my lactose intolerance renders me unable to
see, smell, hear, taste, or touch, and not react. For I,
I spit out logic, turning societal mush into
a delicacy that warms the body and soul
to help people helping me cope.


I gnaw on my fingertips,
hunger is the only thing I find filling
my stomach as the anxiety that I had
eaten at breakfast left me shaking.
I grab ahold of my left hand pinning it down
preventing the cutlery inside of it from trumpeting
the return of disorderly thoughts which parade
uniformly in and out of my head as I look on,
a bystander caught in the front line
without having bought a ticket to this grand event,
Excusing myself I cut lines to get a turn at the bathroom
where I keel over, neither giving in to nor conquering
my psychological nausea.