panic attacks

there is no prescription
for this deep and painful throbbing in the center
where my insides quake
eyes shifting all around me,
hear the silent tick tock ticking
makes the panic set in
my heart becomes a vortex trying to swallow me whole
shaky sort of knowing that perhaps theres something growing
and its crawling up the sides of me and
curling in the eyes of me
its waiting and its watching for a window to devour me
looming just above me in the darkness
still it watches me
hiding in the shadows and it never takes its eyes off me
biting snapping - never leaving
I can always hear it breathing
but when i turn the lights on
all thats left is empty nothing
spashed on white walls - mocking

compromised thoughts

compromising the fabrication of reality
I take what I have
bend it to be what I think I want
pretending it is what I need
giving it a shiny paint job
sweeping unmentionables under the rug
to forego the conclusion
that my hypothesis has always been incorrect
sought out supplementary understanding
shared moments elsewhere
emotional embraces from another
late night conversations
left me feeling a little dirty like having secrets
little white lies when I feel I cannot tell my truths
not ever to you
leaving me with a metallic taste
like bad medicine
force feeding yes’s
crushed and added to food to avoid the bitter taste
disappointed in my inability to look beyond the immediate
holding onto nostalgia
fiercely protective and lashing out
with clenched fists when asked to explain myself
with understanding sought out
where things aren’t so hard
makes me examine the details
more closely
wondering how things could be different
if the hands that held me
belonged there

reorganzing

there a was a drawer in my heart i left empty for you
for your belongings
space for your baggage
room for you to put your things when you came to stay
even briefly
for the night
for the weekend
but you would haphazardly throw a bag of clothes on the floor
to be scooped up upon every exit
perhaps a renegade sock left to hide beneath the bookshelf
i opened it the other day to wipe the cobwebs away
it remained empty
lifeless, except for a spider that scurried out
only to disappear into the floorboards
ready to make cobwebs in somebody elses misplaced wishes
looking around at the clutter
thinking i can use that space
neatly organized
labelled for efficiency
hopes
dreams
desires
alphabetized laundry list of longings
mark a check beside each given in completion
blinds opened
letting some light in

for me this time

no shackles round these wrists
untied
unfettered
unwilling to allow ownership
to brand its burning iron into fleshy parts
counting and counting the days spent with only myself
to answer to
to reason with
i carved lines in prison walls
cut hopes into skin with fingernails sharpened by wit
trapped inside my own skin
insecurity blanket round neck like a noose awaiting a hanging
i am tired of feeling invisible
i have said over and over
no more self inflicted emotional wounds
to prove i feel?
were my tears real?
love masochistic means beating your head into a wall
but only for so long
until being a martyr for your cause
writes labels on your concert tee
screaming pathetic
over the amplified white noise
that lulls you into a quiet complacency
back handing me back to reality
i am stronger than i appeared to be

escaped

this person is not delicate
no bruised petals nor shrunken violets shrivelled up
buried - deep into the earth
do not go easy on skin
do not touch with a soft hand
without conviction
create caresses without
the ammunition
of leaving a lasting impression
This memory recalls days when proximity only would
send rippled electricity from ears to toes
indifference begs and trains for something
a bit rougher around the edges
tougher thicker skin
callused palms turned upward against my cheek
This person is not delicate
not to be babied
rocked back and forth with soothing lullaby lies
but to be embraced
with equal strength
with unafraid passion plays
bold and brazen and screaming from rooftops
I am here and real and will
push pull tug and scream back at you
this person is not delicate

simple and unopened (written in 2009)

I am only me
simple and unopened
two hands and wrists heavy from heart scarred sleeves
two left feet that keep stumbling into the wrong headspace of thought
rationally the words of space and time should fall upon a sympathetic ear
but the angry reds of swollen eyes are screaming at me to adhere to my own internal rules.

I am only me
simple and unopened
two eyes that dig deep and burrow into your secrets
two arms that hold too tightly to foolish promises of romantic notions
disposing of my jaded thoughts with sling shots of dismissed comments
but the fear that creeps besides me shadow boxes all attempts to rise above

I am only me
simple and unopened
two lips that tell too much and too quickly to remember
two ears that hear the negative like surround sound from the best seats of the house
idealistic and imperfect dreams and desires painted with oil slicks upon a blank canvas
but without vision the color bleeds to muddled brown to paint with shades of gray

after this you may need a cigarette... (originally written in 2006... warning family members, its more R rated than my other stuff)

with the twisting of the rhythm of the nighttime lighting
you can drop drippings of a candle if you dont leave marks.
well unless they are hidden,
for office politics require a bit of delicacy.
yet delicacies of flesh forgotten from months of indifference
back turning on someone well hidden in doorways electronic.
its easy to be anonymous when noone can see you lurking behind that two way mirror,
where we're watching things start entwining like limbs and lips and tongues.
do you think you could make me speak like that or
testify or maybe sing a halleluia
from the back of my throat that comes out too throaty for anything holy. perhaps if you held wrists twisting one handed turnaround with shoulder blade biting
you could make an assumption of the tone of my thought processes that are like cutting into a sort of sweet cake like softness perhaps.
voyeuristic tendencies makes me want to tripod this moment or
maybe we'll just exercise the boundaries of speech
more affective than touching but licking down that side of my shoulder may prove more conducive to the worries in your mind of what comes next.
second guessing if i'm flinching wont get you to any type of finish line, yet your hidden glimpses of such sensitivity sort of crawl down my back arched spine,
closed hand on the jugular makes you feel the pulse you should be feeding, speeding, leading into the backwards sighs of sweat drenched lines surrounding open minds drifting .