Broken-Poet

Time and time again, I was lost on a fin; perpetually moving across blue sands, this and I let home be a hidden mark. One day we stopped in a picture, and, looking taller than tallest, I peered at it all-- using every bit of my gall. And in one small place, in one short mile, there was a shore and a call. “Bring you, child, and that is all! Come to the land of treasures abroad!” My fin was quite maddened, it did not comply at all. Though it was never spoken to in the first place, it did not comply at all. All of a sudden, we tore through colors with breaking-time SHOVES against ghosts of ships and ships not yet ghos

We're all around you;                      among you,                             above you                       by your wishes alone. [of course;            we reflect who you are             on the (inside)out] Jesus has nothing on us!                                   we wrote the Bible, after all.                                       (we are your idols.) You listen,       you watch,              you follow,                               and we christen you our disciples.                                                                           (some call you sheep,                                              

I (don’t) understand you, the silhouette of my neighbor’s husband, sleeping on hot cement; the egg that fried, sunny-side-up, before the pool deck burned my                              desert soles drink, collecting diamonds dropped from the back pocket of a setting sunrise, the moon-drunk Isis shares your disgraced comet eyes with the                               haughty Rhine drowns, my salient disappointments buried in the question of the sea; I am Dr. Frankenste

Naked I stood, there, before God's judgment, riddled with bullets fired from steel eyes; my mouth was barren of words that escaped while the butterfly war raged in my chest. —And the room echoed with a screaming silence.

                           up...                 rises... Exhaust... from pipes belonging to (worn out) cars What's in the passenger seat? "That suitcase packed tightly upside down carrying meaningless dreams" And driving, you whistle a tune; something I'll never hear-- but something you know I'd hold dear (if I were to hear, that is) And from your pocket, you place a picture on the pillow your head should have been

It is a colourless autumn day As if the rain coated sky- Consumed a once pastel splattered world Painted by children and fairy dust. I was a writer once – And the ink beat through my veins. I accost my heart about its well; To find that blood never tided there. My dreams speak to me- Like imagination Splattered over pale walls. As I scribble oracular words, Illuminating an unfolding world- - I wonder if I have been there before Or am I purely out of mind. Watching ink drain from the nib as if from- My brittle wounds. I wish for a vast ocean of night To tell me what my name is worth. And if it cannot give me the value o