I relapsed, unimaginably so, into my
childhood dreams framing them
beside one another. Painstakingly I
paint, each emotion from memory in
an attempt to provide color to a greyscale that
slides ambiguously from light to shadow.
I linger, hesitant to pause, still shading the past as
moving on is a challenge that I do not willingly accept.


Lies Gather

Some lies gather,
recollecting the past as if
dragging dirt into our
house and interrupting
a conversation with the
unique thud of a
mud encrusted shovel
released, dropping against
the floor causing
scarring to the white tile
with gouge marks
equivalent in size to the
lines that rail-road
along my arms.


If you could look inside me
would my vulnerability show,
or would it hid among the wall
of now pale inner scars
long since bled out,
but could you concentrate on examining
my true feelings while met with a facade
on all sides from a whisper telling you
everything and nothing all at once
spilling my thoughts and covering my
emotions in heretic libel
spoken both for and against myself,
king of everything and nothing
as it pertains to me.


My past is inked on my skin,
forever eschewed by the rivers of
jagged lines cutting across arms,
memories that once bled from my wrists,
all the while others
highlighted by the imperfections
that shine off-color offering up
variance to an intended
monotone skin.
My emotional scars lay beneath
throwing me off balance,
seen through the subtleties in my
actions that are characteristic of my past,
I wonder if my mirror reflects
those hidden thoughts, once buried,
and each time I wonder if I should just
remember to forget.


Your voice lingers.
An after-image transposed
on my memory, eyes, ears.

Echoes of our past,
sounding off as reverberations in the
present, your once soft spoken words.

Quietly you left,
but you will never leave.


Summer time reminds me of you,
the sandy beaches lay before me,
my eyes cast upon them finding small
imperfections, shells out of place,
lumps in the land, my footprints,
with every detail painting the pasts picture
only to be erased with the coming wind
as the footprints are covered as if a by a brush,
and the tiny imperfections are removed one by one as
new sand covers the past,
I ask that you not bury your past since I
always loved your imperfections.