Syllabant

I’ll teach you to fear the Night –
to creep at the edge of the light
and how your little street lamps
won’t keep you safe.

I’ll teach you how loud the Silence is –
how the weight of it rings,
like an old, rotten bell,
you’re terrified of breaking.

I’ll teach you how full the Shadows are –
and show you an army of monsters
that hide beyond the corners of your eyes,
hungry for a sign of weakness.

I’ll teach you about real Power –
when the snapping of a stick
barely as long as your hand
makes you jump a mile.

I’ll teach you about Terror,
and then sit back to enjoy the show
as you destroy yourself
from the inside out.

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Tea party

I’m so very tired,
of what I see on TV:
the Adonis, the Adona
prominently displayed.

I do not mean to say
that they are not praiseworthy,
but where are the people
who look like me?

Where are the crows feet,
and the other battle scars of aging?
Where are the acne scars,
and the stretch marks?

Where are the five-o’clock shadows
and the two-day stubble?
Where are the casual clothes –
because fuck this suit and tie.

Instead we are presented with
perfection, waxed and polished,
practiced in the mirror,
and previously recorded
so it could be whitewashed.

Instead they display a still life,
desperately clinging onto life.
But life is movement and change,
and I watch them as I walk by,
smiling at me with the dull eyes of dolls.

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Exhibit

They call me “naked”,
but that is not true.
At best, they see me nude.

All that they can see of my body,
the scars and stretch marks,
no more define me
than would my shadow.

To see me naked
is to look beneath my skin
at the raw, emotional heart
beneath the still facade.

And for all the efforts to strip me down
and set me on display,
they will only ever see a body –
they will never find the real me.

Because I am a party
that is invitation-only,
and it’s hard to earn a ticket
to the symphony of my soul.

So call me what you will,
but know I’ll judge your words,
and if you dig this deep and call me “naked”,
then I think you’re being shallow.

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In the shadow of a smile

Some people smile
because they do not know harshness.
Others smile
because they know harshness too well.

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Those summer days

The Solstar shines on,
and I fall before his influence.

The heavy heat
knocks me to my knees,
I struggle to stand,
but cannot quite make it.

They call them
“The dog days of summer”
because even the hounds hide
beneath the boughs of trees.

I am a devotee of the dark,
and spend my sunlit hours
contemplating air conditioning
in cool, quiet places.

And so I wait for winter,
sunburned and sweat-stained,
counting the calendar days
until the temperature
chills the fuck out.

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