My Letters to the World that Never Wrote to Me

A collection of poems inspired by Emily Dickinson (and one after William Blake), and some not.


I. A Song of Experience

The end again and all I see is our world standing still.
For all those years you never saw — the wishes unfulfilled.
The wounds are covered shabbily, excuses running thin.
The end again and everything's two-hundred-eighty-six.

Your eyes close as you tune out — my sorry little pleas.
The end again and all I am is right back on my knees.
No fortitude from either side, I hide my lips in shame.
The wandering mind is cursed and blind in a variety of ways.

The alphabet's unceasing curse is running through the folds,
Of unwashed sheets and dirty feet and laundry two weeks old.
The end again and everything's exactly how it seems.
Recreate the exact way that all this came to be.

The end again and how the hell am I to make amends?
For things I said and tears I bled — your promises that fell.
In your absence something else developed in my mind.
Not so crazy — next to someone else who loses time.

These infantile words explain what eyes don't comprehend.
The rhythm's off, but I'm afraid of what comes in your stead.
The end again, to all who've seen this coming miles away.
You're incorrect, this is in fact — the way it shouldn't be.

I hate the way you force me back to thirteen year old ways —
Rhyming phrases, inbred names, and everything's the same.
The end again and nothing is the way I make it seem.





II. The Truth Must Dazzle Gradually

Disconcerting Pictures on the brain —
Sleep Never seems to help a thing.

Insanity touches — borders of My Senses,
Teasing symptoms yet uncovered,
Drowning — in a pool of Your Unrest —
Conceptually, the worst of these is This:

Inside-out — you see that I'm a Wreck —
Of Colors — in the world to be unchecked.







III. Redundancy

Ocean depths surround again —
Rock me in your waves.
I'm sleeping in my dreams.
Massive shadows dance in spaces yet unseen.
Your face reflected a million times before it gets to me.

Itching to be near the shore again —
Caught in currents not my own,
Yet familiar.
Slip and caress my thirsty pores —
Nothing is the same.

A green hue —
Inappropriate unto itself.
The weight of it all is suffocating.
Smile nonetheless —
For this is not your world...





IV. Breathe Me

I miss the opportunities,
That you presented.
Now every time I read your words,
I remember the resentment,
I used to feel —
At the sound of your name.
Blacktop breezes find their way,
To your face, and your smile is the same —
But my pulse isn't racing like before.
I know a touch might spark the thrill,
But we keep our distance.
Muted, but deeper, a dark river —
Through my lungs — I remember.
Eyes closed —the tender moments,
Float their way to the top,
Once in a while.
I flirt with thoughts of another,
Winter together, but I melt —
At the site of his face.
Light shakes itself,
And the pieces drift —
into my corner.


I love you both —
but not the same.





V. [Insert Here, the Scent of Loneliness]

I'm whipping back to darkened nights on charter buses.
Traps were laid so I would be the whore.
And she was so much nicer than I could hope to be.
Don't think about yourself and I'll be fine, he said.
But in the end he liked the things he could control —
I am left dumbfounded.
You're not that way,
You're not that way,
You're not that way...
Just tell me what I meant, and I'll deny it.
Please, tell me what I said, and I'll forsake it.







VI. Lucid

Sometimes I wander far beyond
the dimensions I’m allowed.
Beautiful words for their own sake
have cut deep into my eyes.

Do rubescent pupils
prove my penitence?
Reaching for sense
I find none.
Regret at weaving tangled webs
and no way out alive.

Pinching nerves to try to see
what I have done.
I'm dead, it seems, and funny
that I asked you such a thing.

A better answer should have been received before
I plunged into the black hole of twisted dreams,
Not meant to repeated in the morning,
unless you're one to remember everything.

Don't play sick games
if you're offended.
Scream and scrape the layers
off my scaly skin.
I was spinning, and seeing things
inside my eyes.
I try to tell you, too late,
that my brain is warped tonight.





VII. First — Chill — then Stupor

After great Pain — I, in Weakness — always lie.
This feeling as heavy as the sky — and winter wind.
After great Sorrow — I, in Strength — must never cry.
This thought, a moment crystallized — Forever.

After great Wrong — I, in certain Light — fall, head in hands.
This soul is damned, but was it ever mine — the question.
After great Crime — I, in prison Cell — wish for the end.
This heart, so hardened — Frozen Life, awaiting death.





VIII. Your Love had Stood — a Loaded Gun

Innocence does not Prove a thing to me —
You are Guilty — the Greatest crime,
Look at me with Empty eyes — and Apathy —
Diaphanous disguises — I recognize as mine.

Offer your Excuses at the alter — of Cowardice,
Your mask of Glass — Reveals nothing — when Broken,
Recite your Lines and bow — I bring up the Lights —
Careful, Dear — those Thorns bear Roses.





IX. ‘Twas Warm — at First — like Us

One Searing Yesterday chains me —
Caught on a Wall called Loathing.
My Fingertips are raw and Bleeding —
Clawing at a door called May.

Her eyes are Sweet,
Dripping — Boiling Sugar down her cheeks.
Sour Acid teases the back of My Tongue —
A response to Your Existence, but still —
I'd drop the Dagger — for those Two Words.





X. Broken Down

I see — Everything —
I hear Everything —
Thoughts and sound and — Noise.
Dust is gone and permeating.

Colors insinuate what I cannot — Reflecting.
Light is its own — Flavor, retreating,
Back into the Silence.
Ghostly images — surrounding your so-called Reality.

Pupils twitch at things unseen — Imagined.
Movie screens — Distorted.
The words you say translate into,
"I love you... kind of..."

Time stipulates Her own way.
She sees the here and now — and Always.
Frightened — seeing through — now it's relative,
Object to Things said years ago,
Forget what made Things relevant —
Subject to principalities unheard.
Unbroken.

I see — Everything —
I hear Everything
Dust and noise and — Sound.
These thoughts leave me permeated.

Stare at me — don't see a Thing,
It's always — always rubbing off,
The masks are Faded — rubbing off.
Disguises made of nothing I can see — Everything —
I hear Everything —
Sound and dust and — Noise — permeating.

It's all in me —
And now it's yours to show.
Do you like, or are you scared of things to come?
The end again and nothing's here at all.

I am not inspirational.
No one writes about me.
I do not inspire metaphors.
I am not beautiful.
I strike awe into no one's heart.
I am not even ugly enough to be exciting or exotic.
Maybe I strive to be awful.
If I am horrible enough, maybe someone will notice.