The wringer

time's hands have

wrapped around

my heart to clamp down

and wring it out

it had soaked so much up

like a dirty kitchen sponge

so much doubt in myself

so much doubt in others

filled to the brim with

sarcasm and snide comments

mere mechanisms to adapt

and deal and shrug off stress

had taken on all the alcohol,

cigarettes and other intoxicants

to turn off everything outside

just infested with words 

that were never mine, just words

others thought belonged to me

even the elusive trauma I

hadn't even realized absorbed

was adulterated in the muck

time finally popped the blister

that was my heart 

so I could bleed the past behind

Pause ability

looking out into

all the possibilities

the endless night sky

scattered with stars

all the knowledge 

enclosed in the smell 

of old books when 

you were young

the bare turned soil

in the warming April days

a glimpse into what

the subconscious needs

to unload after eyelids close

what's said or done

after lips have met and parted

the next step after 

the last one is taken

 

Throwing daggers

an ambitious fiend

by the name of Ire

carries around a 

fistful of blindfolds

he loves to use on

so many people who

are standing on the edge

his brother fiend

by the name of Scorn

carries around a

fistful of daggers

he loves to put in

the hands already

blindfolded by Ire

their sister fiend

by the name of Maim

carries around a

mouthful of lies

she loves to whisper

into the ears of those

holding daggers from Scorn

AM rains

morning rains 

in the darkened sunrise

on stilts of spikey spruce

silhouettes in the dim light

the world outside

blurred by slow running

splatter of morning rains

on dirty windshield

and side windows

a pause before the begin

a stall before the labor

a moment to take it all in

and sit with both 

disappointment and gratitude

in the morning rains

 

Let it be written

whatever has been

written on my skin

is an old story

they are words

that have passed

scars that have

outgrown their lessons

wounds that have

long since healed

whatever has been

written on my heart

is the current tale to tell

they are words 

that belong to me

people that I'll

always have a smile for

places that will

always make me tear up for

whatever has been

written on my soul

is vague yet so familiar

they are words

I have yet to understand

doors I have yet

to find the keys for

and moments that will

turn my world upside down

 

Vacant beats

early morning conversation

with the heart

my what it has to say

at three thirty three

what it will entertain

what fantasies it will weave

into the fabric of the sheets

gladly am I its confidant

in these wee hours

let it bellow before sunrise

the pillow sopping up

the river of tears

the regrets and the fears

and the lament over 

what was lost

or never achieved

in all those previous years