Inspire me

Whatever crust you must trim from

Lend me 

A flake of your evening 

Take me 

To that place I spent summers 

Years from now, now in the past 

I'll write to you about a general store

And New England evenings 

Take me there 

I want to watch you discover me

For the first time 

I was a boy then 

Poetry was making out in cars 

And written on bathroom walls 

I was sure of the world then 

I haven't been sure since

The general store closed at 6:15

I have no idea why

Maybe there was dinner at home and a family waiting around a table

I was sure it didn't matter 

We needed jackets after dark in July 

I didn't pack one 

I loved that chill 

I was sure of it

It's nearly July now 

And I can count those days by decades 

It's warm in the south 

And though I can smell the ocean from my porch 

We never get flakes here

If we did

I'd gather them

And share them with you 

One by one

I'm sure of this 

I shattered again

     alone in the dark last night.

     Shards glistened in the moonlight.

I picked up the pieces

     as best I could

          so you wouldn't cut your feet.

No need to fetch the dust pan,

     no broom,

     no pail,

     no sweep.

I'll piece myself together again,

     more glue,

     more tape,

     more tears.

Don't touch me yet,

     I haven't set.

Each time,

     I fear,

          I must

               make more

                    from less

                         and ask

what's left?

It matters not who threw the first stone

Only that the stone was thrown,

And that the bruises stand ripe

Upon the skin of those whose fathers

Held the rake while those whose fathers

Held the whip are clean.

It matters not when one proclaims

That all lives matter, are sacred, have equal claim,

When those vocal few move to shut

The voices down of those who cannot move

Above their station and live in fear

Of having sons when those who swear

To protect the innocent kill those who

Raise their hands in peace.

It matters not when children grow

And dress in clothes that do not show

What the doctor promised years ago.

When children hold the razor on skin

And cut their flesh to feel whole and pure,

To hide the agony that rages within

While their family hides behind closed doors.

It matters not what language is heard

When those who to a country come

Escaping war, famine, disease, guns.

With open arms they should be greeted

Instead of leered at, jeered at, hated.

Those who have should give, not hoard

While behind their computer screens

They cry of invasion by threats unseen.

“Our jobs!” “Our land!” “Our Church!”

Are not true threats upon a person

But upon the comfort they feel they deserve.

It matters not that one feels safe

When those who ask for help do not.

It matters not.

The earth is scarred.

You and I, we see her pain. Our people have dug deep and marked her once flawless skin.

Her beautiful hills and plateaus,

mountains and valleys,

have been torn up

and picked over

until all that is left

are the metal bearings of humanity's adoration.

And then they look away.

Some may understand what she has lost, but her wounds disgust

and she can no longer allure their eyes.

Unless they gaze directly upon her beautiful, flowing, growing hair,

she is overlooked.

Although her scars are our shame,

many of us fail to look her in the eye.

Is not a woman with scars still beautiful? 

What kind of dark truths are hidden to bring forth an answer?

When they cut the last strand of her beautiful green hair,

she will disappear before their selective eyes. 

They will force out her immense strength to endure but will dismiss her spirit for lack of aesthetics. 

It is by this that she is in pain. It is by this that she is scarred. 

But you and I, we understand that she is not going anywhere. 

I'm a disgraceful song engraved...

I'll cry all night. I'll cry all day.

Led astray, by this nasty wolf,

Its daggers ripped my soul.

Left me in dismay.

Heart in the grave.

Eyes filling in with darkness,

Ice my blood and mind.

Once laughter I would roar,

Now. Shame is my door.

Wipe the fog from my body,

Just to feel the guilt polluted.

Puking up my ways,

I lost the fight and my sight.

I Kneel. Walk. Breathe.

Run. Shower. Eat.

Pleading for mercy.

In my dreams I plea.

I wake up to the sunrise,

with my mind stuck on repeat...

Foul Failure. Disgusting.

Heart nonexistent...

Nevertheless,

Continuing throughout each day...

Have mercy, Please, Have mercy on me...