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Poem
They say the eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul.
That thought often makes me shutter 
because they can become blinded by small, flip folding
white lies created by a stranger and it allows yourself 
to be opened by the pull of a string. 
That wasn't good enough for me 
so I took the drifting thoughts of my pain body and built a door
cast by a chain made of irony and a horrible metaphor.
It was only crazed, maniacal laughter that shattered 
the peep hole I used to peer through a battered pith,
often confused with the heart,
because nowhere does it say in the myth 
it is also enclosed in the soul of your window. 
It is so much easier to agree it is meant to wither when cold. 
Through the years my heart has been blackened, 
overly seasoned on a griddle between the equinox 
and the solstice, marked only by the condition 
that I sealed my door without permission. 
Now, it ages like a gut rot fairytale, bolted and locked in a keep safe box.
Three inches tall and four inches wide,
an unknown name on top with red velvet inside. 
I always thought loving should be a piece of cake. 
My center, stowed away and imprisoned under a word
unable to release or enter the gap 
between perception and reality. 
I am left trapped behind a gallery of memories.
Still, I collect them and distribute them irrelevantly
on a piece of paper entitled 'Today' and at the end of every Today, 
I consider it a rough draft, crumple it up, and toss it away 
because I will make tomorrow's Today a more pleasant essay. 
Solitude has become an illusory sense of identity
guarding the door like a hungry fiend, craving and feeding 
with a bleeding tongue of tension and staggering beliefs. 
Fighting off whims and attacking precious moments 
when primordial error could be wiped clean. 
I can feel the vibration of waves on what they say,
but the depth of basic sounds do not reduce it to embody my deepest truth.
I rely on energy that entangles itself accidentally in the shield of my adversity. 
A backwards time travel thought process, self wilding
on a reverse assembly line in the natural evolution of relations. 
But, resistance somehow makes the world feel more real.
In actuality, what is being kept safe in my box, is a yearning
for the name on top to come along, place a bullet in the monster's head, 
catch the door before I slam it shut, actually try to open the blinds and help me
replace my gallery with something a little more beautiful.
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