Maple

The bottom of the maple tree 

suited my purposes, so I 

dug down with my bare hands 

until I uncovered the roots. 

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it 

between those mighty veins. 

The dried blushing roses, 

the letters and the poems, 

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you 

gave me, buried in the ground. 

And there my love can grow, 

warped in the roots of that big 

maple tree, rather than inside of 

a heart that can no longer 

sustain life. The only evidence 

left behind is the black dirt 

on my hands from covering 

it up. 

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart. 

Salve

There's no salve for these cracked lips
raw and burning,
and never perfectly healed.
I sleep and don't speak for hours,
as each cut seals over,
and I forget, for a little while,
that I feel any agony at all.
Yet when I awake,
and try to mutter the smallest phrase,
the smallest cry,
or muster the smallest grin,
my sores tear open,
and I am not longer so forgetful.
So it is,
when I part my lips I receive nothing
but stinging pain and chagrin.
Wincing in despair that no one can quel,
untouchable parts of me that no one dare defy,
the very gates to my soul,
besieged and overtaken by
pain, that is dull but ever present,
pain, that subsides, but never leaves,
pain, that seems menial, but is never far from my mind,
pain, that when expressed, never receives aid.

And that, my friend,
is incentive enough
to keep my mouth closed.

Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

The Swell

And yes,
my chest has been torn open
to expose my little heart
to the weathering of the world,
and to the harshness of its love.
But it was an unwilling surgery
and it was secretly performed
with no sterile instruments;
I am infected.
I am now prone to injury
and agonizing affliction
without warning or heed
that will either cause me disease
or expire me completely.
So thrust is my heart,
into the violent seas
of humanity and grief,
and I am not free to swim away,
but I am forced to drown
in tears bigger than tidal waves,
in air that never fills my lungs.

And no,
none of this is alright with me.

The Title of this Poem is Used Three Times

What on God's green earth

makes you think it's okay 

for you to finally be a decent man 

when you were despicable with me? 

Your praises sound like rocks 

falling into an empty well, 

hollow and spent 

like every other word 

you ever spoke to me in love. 

You're the faulty clutch 

that has me stalled in the middle 

of a busy intersection 

scrambling for a running engine, 

but left to collide 

with cars on all sides 

as soon as the light turns green. 

And do you not remember 

the endless months 

that you dragged my heart around 

like an unwanted dog

stuck to your leash? 

I remember the green grass, 

the muddy fields, 

the concrete playground 

and every other place 

you brought me to. 

What on earth, 

makes you think it's okay 

to finally be a decent man, 

when you were only a hurtful boy 

with me? 

The First To Say. . .

Let me be the first to say
that nothing about your eyes,
nothing about your laugh,
nothing about your presence,
is settling.
You push me into corners,
make me run, hide, and cry
for some kind of resolution
when you offer no apology
no remorse,
not even an acknowledgement of my existence.
I loved you,
with the most ardent and earnest love,
and I kept no record of your wrongs,
until you crushed me with your words,
crushed me with your two anxious hands,
and now,
months removed,
my bones are still broken,
my heart is still torn up,
and you walk free, just the same.
Let me be the first to say,
that if you could really understand these eyes,
they'd tell you that this is far from over.

Shadows

The wind dances a shadow
of where you once stood
next to me with your teddy eyes,
smiling like a little child.

The dust spins a whisper
of your four letter name,
that used to leave my lips
with the sweetest taste.

The leaves fall in a melody,
to the tune of your last song
that I sang for days and days,
after you taught me how it was sung.

Now the rain paints pictures
of all our still-framed memories
that will never get hung;
they're just rinsed clean away.

It's not for lack of trying,
that you're fading with every second,
but an unforgettable pain
that you injected in my skin.

And the poison mixes and blends
with the water from my heart
until I can only see your shadow,
dancing, in the wind.

4am Honesty

I find it painfully funny
that I haven't spoken to you
in weeks now
yet you still have this way
of making me feel worthless.
Just hearing
of every uneven story,
every feeling you lied about,
makes me want to break
all my own rules,
just to raise hell.
But it doesn't make sense,
that this little green monster
lives inside a heart that is set
on moving on,
because I want to move on.
But I remember how we began,
innocently enough,
but your god
just couldn't make it work.
But now,
you seem to be sure
that a slighter,
lesser, shadow of me
(all pride aside, I swear)
is more than enough
for you to initiate something?
For you to use every tactic
and good relationship sense,
that I taught you?


Oh, Please.

Hypochondria

My name is hypochondria,

And I swear,
that my clammy hands,
and my palpitating heart,
are clear signs
that my heart is stopping.
And my closing throat,
and my want for sleep,
is alerting me
to some kind of cancer,
growing, and spreading.

The more I sit here,
the more ailments I count,
and the more I worry,
the more my worrying sickens me.
I live in a circle,
only every once and a while,
where I'm afraid of my fears.
And it's only when
I realize that I'm fine,
that I am free.

Davy Jones

Reconciling you
with the you you used to be
has become my only task.
My heart fills to the brim
with confusion, with thoughts
and my eyes see what they want
and my ears hear what they need to,
while my heart feels
everything, simultaneously.
My mouth doesn't want to talk
my mind doesn't want to think,
and my heart doesn't want to feel.

Yet I harbour this ship,
constantly sitting in my port,
carrying everything I've had,
along with everything I've lost,
with no hope of leaving,
but yet it's never really here.
A captain who can't decide
and I, as uncertain as the tide,
unable to hide the emotions
from our sea-worn faces.
We are drifting here,
through storm and calm,
just drifting here.

We have no other choice.

Something Beautiful

Everything in my line of sight
is a slightly broken reflection
of what was once so beautiful.
My dull eyes used to shine,
with a joy that you inspired in me,
And my empty hands used to hold yours,
with such light and honest hope,
but now all I have are the memories.
The tiny snap shots of our story
that never had this end in mind.
There's no rewriting, no reliving,
just the one comforting thought:
that if I look at something beautiful long enough,
then maybe I'll remember what beauty is.

Smile

...And if you stop to think
about all the moments we smiled,
you'll see that this was worth
all the pain we'll feel for now.

Because the gifts you've given me
were of a heavenly calibre,
things I couldn't have dreamed of
or even have thought to ask for.

Though I may have failed to be
the one you'll be waiting for,
I know I gave the very best
of what I was able to give.

Even though we've lost so much,
along this road of misadventures,
I am thankful for the temporary joy
that I was allowed to feel.

That joy may not translate
into today, or tomorrow either,
but in the healing and the closer,
your memory will continue
to make me smile.

Please promise me you'll smile;
you never know what will happen when you do.

Here It Comes

And here it comes,
what I called for last night,
a begging of forgiveness
because I know my anger angers you.

But Lord, I can't smile,
I can't laugh. I sob.
Into pillows, into people,
into my own failing hands.

Show me a glimpse
of your purpose in this,
because the more I don't understand,
the harder it is to push through.

I will try to trust you Lord,
but trying is all I can do right now.

I'm sorry

Hot Coals

Well excuse me
for these pent up words
and my long winded laments,
for I have forgotten to realize
that you hardly care.

And pardon me,
for mentioning these memories I relive
retrace, reveal, remember,
for it is only now that I see,
that you don't think of me at all.

And how can you sleep
with the knowingness of guilt?
and how can you dream
when I can hardly shut my eyes?

You're still stopping and blocking, and locking me up.
You're pushing and pulling, and holding me down.
You're breathing and scheming, and feeding me lies,
You're unaware, godless, and convinced of my demise.

But do you not know me?
Do you not know who I am?
You have not chosen some small child
or some silent lamb, so easily led,
but rather a conqueror so bent
on seeing a heavenly, divine justice.
You owned the hand that fed me,
and it is your poison I now reject,
And as my teeth sink further into your flesh,
I can muster up nothing that looks like regret.

Tag

I sat in the third seat, 

facing the curtain-covered window, 

beside a dark haired girl 

who had the same shoes as me. 

You sat in the sixth seat. 

Some simple conversation, 

and some awkward words 

echoed in my mind 

in the weeks that followed. 

Months from then, they still do. 

So many hours laboriously spent 

asking Mr. God-of-the-universe

to slow down just a little bit, 

so I could decipher you. 

So I could decipher my heart.  

Then you created and destroyed me, 

exposed and protected me, 

until you couldn't understand anymore.

Your confusion has yet to change my certainty, 

but my heart can't keep waiting. 

You're still that man, 

sitting in that sixth seat, 

but I've gotten up, 

wiped my eyes and said my prayers, 

and walked away. 

Whether or not I'm worth chasing after is really up to you.                                

                                                                                                             

Because

His eyes may be sorry

and his shame may be heavy,

but nothing changes.

Faith fell through the fingers

of nervous and broken hands.

Her heart may be empty

and her words may sound forgiving,

but nothing changes.

Hope was laid to rest

in a necropolis of dreams.

The only thing that changes

is the way we come to the Father,

with open mouths and weary eyes.

Asking the same question,

to a God who only has one answer.

"Why?" we ask.

Because. 

Hey Israel!

Hey Israel!
Your walls are crumbling,
and embers are rising,
higher than you intended.
Longer than you had hoped.

Hey Israel!
You're a whore to evil,
flirting with desires,
you were never meant to have.
You were never meant to have me.

Hey Israel!
This thing called faith
isn't something to pick up and put down
at your earliest convenience.
And neither am I.

Hey Israel!
How much longer will you live
in the sin of your youth?
With emptiness in your soul?
With no destination before you?

Maybe you deserve to be left in the desert.

Birthday

Her eyes are wax like the birthday candles
that usher her into a year of trepidation.
Only full of light when they're first struck,
and smouldering with black smoke
as soon as the snuff comes.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

The love has drained from her hands and her feet
as if she was totally bled dry,
and in the morning she won't remember
the moments of pure serenity or
the days of triumphant victory.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

From the pits of her stomach she yearns
for the feeling of resolve and restoration.
A soul-cry that goes unanswered
because those ears certainly don't hear,
and those eyes certainly don't see.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

Out-of-sight-out-of-mind
is a lie we feed our fearful hearts
and she's a glutton over the deception
that she buys in excess and bulk.
Her death is knocking steadily at the door. . .

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

Up

Pull me up, pull me up,

Because this is bottomless

and undetermined. 

I don't like surprises, 

and I don't like questions 

so the longer you leave me, the faster I fade. 

Pull me up, pull me up, 

from the ground I can't gain, 

and if you feel like being merciful, 

I could use a little compassion. 

Do you feel like loving today?

Or is it a burden you wish to cast off?

Pull me up, 

unless you plan to repeat this process, 

then in that case

don't waste your time. 

I wouldn't want to cause you to make the same mistake twice...

Force-Fed

The operating table is cold,

as my head is pulled back, 

my jaw wired open, 

ready for your next move. 

You numb me of every feeling, 

so my emotions are rendered useless, 

and you begin your daunting task. 

One by one you shove the words, 

deeper down my throat, 

force-feeding the things I never said, 

until they come spilling out, 

flowing out, 

crawling out. 

And you continue despite your better judgement, 

and despite my pleading eyes, 

until you are convinced of innocence, 

and I am left with guilt that isn't mine. 

I hope you're satisfied,

because I'm not.