Perhaps Tomorrow?

I stare at the phone,

Thinking how it would feel to pick it up,

Thinking how it would feel to make the call,

Thinking of how many rings will go unanswered,

Or if it will be intercepted;

Will the voice be a man or a woman?,

Or will it be caught, cupped, collected by some cavernous hole,

that saves my words;

Words that I’ve put out there,

Free but heavy, sticking to the air

Like my breath when it’s cold out

Why am I not concerned… how he must feel awaiting my call?

Not knowing feels delightfully powerful.

 I wait to see if the rebellion in me passes…….

I could easily put his feelings before mine,

I am still the kid he left at the curb,

 waiting, endlessly, a lifetime really

I don’t think I’ll call.

Perhaps tomorrow?.

Lying Inside

The sly child works life over….

On the wrong day, you don’t wanna be in the ring.

The blows are at you, and about him.

The perspiration is evidence of an overheated mind.

He is perceived to be taking deliberate jabs

But he is paradoxically foolish,

two faced and fools even himself.

Left hook,

Upper cut, uppercut, jab….  prancing like an athlete

he is bogged down with un-harvested tears;

a levy waiting to break

a need as basic as his tears

and as acidic as his loathsome thoughts,

as commonplace as his morning eggs and toast.

Does the masochist avoid the mirror, toothbrush readied, 

while he scours the flesh

from his gums?

Like an addict and his pills

there was never time for pain

only time for a reprieve from life;

the threat of pain.

Like a suicide bomber he ascribes

to his false hope like the fighter and the addict

but never fully deactivates the roots

Deadly nightshade is, after-all, edible?

 

She Woman

            She Woman

If only he had known;

Her scent was a mere accent color,

Barely detracting from a ready palette of bright hopes,

 She was never as gentle as a field of poppies.

 Her presence blinded many before you.

You were the white her brushes were missing, her contrast color

To dampen the vivid hues of her vixen,

Before you, her muffled heart screamed,

Like a junkie on a binge, gifted but sorrow-filled.

She was the paradoxical woman, a SHE woman

Capable only of bloodshed,

Like a double edge sword.

A woman should never be ruled

By monthly renewal, that which is the color of yesterday’s anger….

 Which ekes blood from a crevice of beauty?

Confusing as it is, not everyone looks beyond a pond’s first layer

Curvaceous, seemingly delicate, legs like a race horse, slender mind

Still her eyes look down, at her feet.

Her biggest fear, her own shadow, keeps her from wanting to know more.

A pity…. that the mirror tells only half of her story.