Validation

At birth,
you took up existance's hand.
He has yet to let go.

Take him up on his offer;

don't compromise your thoughts

for what to you is true.

There is no one world,
one way,
one thought...
Instead, there are a millions ways
to derive
the sights you see.
Choose one,
and believe.

Only one person needs to
wake up
in your head
to realize the sun rises.

The chocie needs to be made
on whether
to slip in as a whole
into a 'this way' warped society,
or to fall
-of our own accord-
holding onto the one cord that will pull us through:
Think.
Thoughts can never be
unthunk.
You were never not here.

Calloused Hands

Peace is the space between my thumb and pointer finger
I am at ease with a pencil poised there
Ready
At any moment
To preserve thought on paper
I wonder:
Is peace in my hand, my pencil, or
the world that lets me write
without compromise?

Simultaneous

To hold the future
Is to watch cupped water run
From impatient hands

Fears

I'm still afraid of vacuums. They pose a threat, sizing me up to suck in my existence. Actually, I may be more afraid of loosing this fear than I am of afraid of loosing myself. I'm not fearless.

I'm in constant worry over the sake of actually loosing my fears. They are all I have in connection to the freedom of youth. Nobody stops a child from believing. Since I've shed my baby fat and balled up fists of tears, you think it's right to take away my eyes of innocence? You tell me I am either right or wrong; there is no sense being creative.

I'm afraid of this darkness adulthood presses upon me. I hope my flashlight never goes out.

A Lot of Things Are Round (for Pi Day)

The penny from the ground
takes the shape of gold
in a child's palm.

The pupils in your eyes,
dare I tell you why,
entrance me.

The disk that is the sun
resumes it's earthly run
each morning.

From peace signs to shirt buttons
the circumference will always be
a function of 3.141592653.

Empty Nest

The room, like the cupcake tins, is dusted with flour. The surface has acquired that extra slick consistency that little particles add to shined granite. The island counter-top is gray speckled granite, or it was before it was assaulted by the baking weapons and heavy artillery. Now, it has the look of a light snow fall, one that would have disappointed her now grown children as they buttoned up for the bus stop. On top of the snow are metal sleds for cookies and a red ceramic bowl dripping with batter.

The bowl holds a spatula rather than swirls from a handheld mixer. That’s what you get with time. Hand mixed batter has settled in droplets into new area codes. They would have had a street named after them had the snow plow not come along and washed the slush away. The batter softens into the green checked washcloth as it is rinsed out into the large kitchen sink. The sink’s stainless steel sides are sprayed in the action. Eventually, water mixes with soap; some bubbles form and float to the ceiling.

The ceiling is masked with a fresh coat of white paint. There are not any cobwebs in the corners of the dark sea green walls, none that the bright lighting shows anyway. I am sure they are in attendance like the few crumbs that modestly hide from the broom. Some blend in well with the floor tiles of gray, black, and white. Others, the lady’s aging eyes just don’t see. She’s concentrating on her baking.

Found: a Stranger in a Friend

His spine curves over in an exaggerated arch. He is stretching for something. That something might as well be tucked somewhere in the texts of last nights trigonometry homework for that he is right now. Man he is smart. His head bends low, nose touching paper and his back rises like a cats.

His smooth liquid flowing shirt uncovers each vertebra. It is as if acid has run down his spine and eaten away every so often. Pools of sorrow and depression gather in the recesses. I would cry if it meant he’d show some happiness.

His eyes are livid with thirst. They roll in dark shadows. He’s stayed up late for the extra fulfillment of knowledge. Now, his tired body sags in a walking sleep, the arch of his back is restful.

I think he has abandoned himself. I do not know when the last time he brushed his hair was. I hope he doesn’t care that I noticed. Normally, he’ll just shrug off those things. His arched back will heave a sigh, shoulders will rise, and he will speak out of the side of his mouth in a nasally voice, “Oh well.” or “That’s okay.” He speaks simply, but I can’t figure him out. When he walks, his head is content with looking forward and his back is happy being straight. I envy his sub-confidence.

I say sub because I know when he sits he recoils into his mind where it is a less than happy place to be. It’s one of the only places he finds acceptance. It troubles him. On the inside, I know he chuckles at the world, but he can’t bring himself to do so out loud. I wish he would just laugh, because I know the world would take that chortle and smile upon it. All he needs is a smile. Maybe then, happiness can begin to fill the depressions in the arch of his back and his hair will untangle into brown curls. His eyes will fill in fuller the recesses of his waxed cheeks. The mumble that escapes past his skinny fingers resting up his chin may grow loud.

I want him to eat more out of life. He is terribly skinny. It’s unusual; I thought a master secret keeper would be fat and able to hide evils in the folds of his skin. Instead, this man is skinny. But this boy, riddle by enough tricks to be a man, hides his muffled thoughts between bona and the faint ripple of muscle. I suspect those evils also home in the mess of his hair. It takes two hands to reach up and brush it from his eyes. I hope he never cuts it. He’d have no where to hide behind. If he cuts his hair, I’ll see everything. I’ll see his neck. I don’t want to see that spine creep up off his back; it will mean he is no longer hiding and that I can no longer look.