The Ever Evasive Moon

How many seasons may pass
before this nagging thought
will cease to ask
the question which makes me
frantically drastic?

Every night it is the moon
who gazes down upon me.
But never does she see me swoon
in the pleasures of spring,
nor in the winter's gloom.

Always looking--
but never does she see.

What if all that ever was in times past never was,
what if all that is in times present was as it was in times past,
what if now was it was, what if this wasn't just wishful thinking, what if--
What if?

Then maybe this song would sound different.

The Flood

Drip, drop.
Each drop
falls, carrying in
it a glimmer.
Bloop. Splash.

Little rivers cut through
the grass, drowning
the Earth. From over-
saturation she suffers.

The water corrodes Her face,
and sweeps away the hints and markings
of a previous place.

How is one to move forth
with his path washed away?

Holes in my Face

An admittedly obsessed people watcher, I see all the things, little and major, in which people do. Their interactions. Their acts of kindness, spite, aggression, etc. My piercings, though certainly not as excessive as some, have proved to be my own sort of social experiment. I catch looks in walking past, their eyes linger upon the metal strung through my face. I catch a mother, a professor, a student, in the act and they guiltily look away. Shame is not what follows, but amusement. In a society where it is so aggressively pushed that judgment is not to be passed, I find humor in said lie. I watch as their eyes lock in mine when conversing, and then inadvertently falling upon each metal protuberance.
"When I first saw you, I definitely thought you would be...different"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," she said, pausing uncomfortably, "just, different."

Springtime Revery

As I walk, one foot placed after another,
thoughts stroll through my mind.
Some are quite helpful, daresay progressive.
Others benign.

Maybe a rose is just a rose.
Perhaps we have thought too much of the latter,
finding meaning where meaning is not.
When, in fact, this meaning doesn't much matter.

Through together all such propositions
theories and analysies,
and abandon them with
a confiedent ease.

Enjoy that which surrounds you.
And find pleasure where "meaning" once laid.

The Yellow Color of Depression

Sunshine rains down from the blue.
It dances, sparkles, glistens, in
reflections made upon puddles,
windows and eyes.

Oh, the science of happiness.
Oh, marvelous sunshine!

Yet, time has past and
gone stale in prolonged
stagnation.

Brown spots amidst the grass.
The glorious puddles--
not themselves. Even
the eyes have lost their shine.

I, have lost my shine.
My 60% is quickly evaporating.

The Sound of Incrimination

With eyes fixated
upon the white walls of
derangement,

A switch was switched in alleged secrecy, but
secrecy it was
not.

The sounds, from which there could be no escape,
resounded within the walls.
Bouncing, reverberating, echoing,
from white to white to white to white.

From without all would appear well.
From within, a mind was sure to be lost.

An Idealistic Ideology

Once it was called perfection.
But time has worked Her magic
and defaced the glow.

Now three steps behind,
only the word why
lingers on my mind.