Time runs screaming
The moon, the only company I can stand
You think I’m downward leaning
Well, maybe I am

I feel every passing judgement
And I can give no blame
No one is responsible
So I stay alone with just my shame

Uncertain Truth

I still don’t know the answer,
Though I’ve provided more than one;
They shift in shape and form,
And no contender yet has won.
I can settle on manipulation,
Or youthful naivete;
But the truth has many iterations,
And among them is a darker me.

Little Things

So many things have I put off
And when asked why, how can I answer?
My reasoning would make most people scoff;
Others deal with things like debt and cancer,
While I have just my mocking fear
And the shelter I have always known.
Whatever troubles there were in the year
Can always be let go,
And eyes shut to the responsibility
That I know should be mine.
But there was a question asked of me
That ought be answered while there is still time:
I have spent so very long, I think,
Living in the fragile state I have,
I see the world as on the brink,
Sure to fall at just a feathered jab.
These little things are telling me
To stretch out my hand;
So I retract it desperately
And retreat at each demand.


I have to focus
On the one thing I can do
There is no room in there for me
There is no room in there for you
No room for what I haven’t done
No room for what I should
No room for all I wouldn’t do
And now I never could
There is nothing but that one thing
Perhaps that isn’t true
But if I have to focus
It has to be on something I can do

Soul Cipher

I worry, if I write my soul,
There’s no one that would understand
And so, as if some ancient scroll,
I translate for my brave new land
But here, a word has lost its meaning
And there, a tune has lost its singing
And somewhere along the way has gone
The very thing that I wished put to song.
And yet, I worry, if I write my soul,
No one could ever understand
And maybe, the glass might be half full,
But that doesn’t mean it’s not half full of sand.
And, who could be that keen on drinking?
Better to reign as queen of over-thinking:
And decree instead of glasses, better a box,
And better still to double-check it locks.


I’ve imagined each scenario,
Examined with a fine-tooth comb;
Will it be failure pronounced in stereo,
Or a fairytale until I’m home?
Will I be a disappointment?
A catatonic mess?
Will I choose “fool” for my employment,
Or will I dazzle and impress?
Will he be ashamed to claim relation?
Will the day ever even come?
Or will he rescind my invitation
Long before it’s said and done?


If I wrote, and only wrote,
Without stopping off to think,
Would it undo this little curse,
Or would it turn out only bleak?
Could I find words to keep writing?
Would it sound in ways of sense?
Or would I be swallowed down
By cursed diffidence?