poems – Can't Not Write

Cut, Burn, Bury

Cut, cut, cut
the young girl’s hair falls to the floor.

You ask yourself, who will I be now?

Seeing is believing.
A sea of red in a crowd of voices,
people who were once separated.

How very studious of you
How very productive

Pour another glass, tuck yourself in
You have nowhere to go
no one to see
Not in this world

Time starts and stops
and starts to stop
Between the seconds I’ve lived a dozen lives.

She speaks and swallows back the words
as soon as they leave her tongue,
a delayed censoring.

A book falls, I fall.

The proper thing to do is to pick it up, dust it off and hold it close to your heart.
Not me, not this time.

Although I haven’t climbed these stairs in years
they always sound the same
under my feet,
creak and splinter,
in the same spots.

I only see you in dreams.
Don’t dwell on it
Don’t think about what could have been

In the middle of a headache
I imagine my nerves are the roots of a tree.

A gentle caress from familiar fingertips
a longing to be wrapped up,
completely surrendering
to a past intoxication.