I can see it one way visibly,
but I know,
there are sides to both sides.
Wrinkled patterns infinitely echo
fine in my mind.
And out there in the contours
and the freckles of your eyes,
a constant strength is flickering,
burning embers so refined.
The darkness in my soul is lost
within your old design;
youth has lost its innocence
before they were yet refined.
Surely some revelation whispering
within the basin of our times,
follow each deception
til there is nothing left to find.

Dollhouse

I used to imagine somebody hanging from the rafters
but that was just the wind in my head.

A head full of grass
to burn this hollow man.

Cause once you're gone
you can never come back,

it's always out of the blue
when it's into the black.

How can they even see me?
Art hanging next to the TV.

Something I dislike
when I am talking to someone
and shortly after they learn I am a writer
they expect me to share in their snobbery
for spelling and grammar.

I don't care if you misspell words (even their/re/y're),
I don't care if you commit a grammatical err,
I am an artist,
I am interested in honest communication;
listening for intent
over being pedantic.

A Shade

master of infamy,
jack of this trade,
even in the sun
a spade is a spade.

Goodbye glass stained past,
I'll set my gaze no more on that.