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The pen was never good to you

And you could never rule it the way you wished

It spilled its ink over each word

And contaminated each sentence with curses

None of which could ever fall from your lips

Always held between your teeth.

The pen was never good to you

But you dreamed and hoped it to be

To flow from your fingertips

And paint each word as though it were your doing.

But the pen was never good to you.

And you were never good enough.

So you look out a car window as the rain pours

And that cigarette slips from your fingers

From your whiskey stained breath a sigh develops

And you walk into the office

Because the pen was never good to you.

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I’m not. That’s how I began.

Two words with which a simple misunderstanding could change all.

“I am.” But I pause and I wait.

Your heart should skip. “Not.”

Did it? Shh. Listen.

Two simple words with which a world arose.

I’m not. That’s how I began.

But I am, you say. I am everything.

I am you. I am your hope. I am your suicide.

For “I am”. Two simple words to bring life to a flame.

And how horrid

To actually “be”

That one soul who would seem so small

That could feel an eternity at your glance

That you would say “please be”

Because of those words I utter.

“But shh, I’m not.”

Two simple words could summon a war

I’m not. And that’s how I began.

And those fickle glass cases surrounding your soul

That form circles upon your pale, pale face

Would close for a momentary century in pain

For “I am”. But I’m not.

And how mellifluous

Those words as they trip

From the tongue of a man so ill with the world

So hopeful of death that he should say “you are”

And not ever explain.

But shh, I’m not.

That’s how it began.

Oh, those two simple words be it to your dismay

Your pity, your fortune, that I should not linger

About on your lips and play at that cage, the lock, I won’t slip.

I am, but I’m not and I don’t take away pain

I don’t take it away but add to each day

And you love it, you adore it, you’re foolish but so wise

Because you’re human and you are and you cannot deny

Those emotions

You love them

I am, and I’m not.

Those emotions

Those two words

Are nothing

When one.

And how beautiful

To whisper that word

That would seem of such insignificance

That one sweet word consisting of you

That captures an emotion of color and fragrance

Of the most profound combination.

Of love and love only

I told you, I’m not.

But I never explained the significance of those words

Those two tiny words

I’m not one to stray away from the meaning

Of that one simple word

That four letter word.

Oh how lovely to love

And to be loved and in love

Oh how lovely that word

One word of more importance

That I said I’d never be.

But shh, I’m not.

At least, that’s how I began.

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Words are not to be stolen. Phrases remain attributed to the speaker of those words. Words that are stolen lose their meaning. Words that are spoken are forgotten and often stolen by those of whom have no meaning but seek it. Words written are not to be stolen and hardly forgotten. Words written are subject to humanity, to history, and occasionally words found too powerful are burned. Words are not to be stolen. Stolen words create holes. Holes create humanity. Humanity creates more humanity. That creation of humanity creates words. And those created words fumble and are stolen to create more words.

And words are important and not to be stolen. Words create phrases that lead to chapters that lead to novels. It once was written…or so they say…and they are the writers, the ones made of words, stolen by words, held captive by humanity’s creation. Words captivate. Words steal. Words are not to be stolen.

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Shards of mirror in your eyes

Reflections of someone

You? No? Or yes?

Perhaps, you say

And touch your ear

The shards of mirror they move.

You? No? Or yes? Perhaps.

Different, you say

Too different to be me.

Then who?

Je ne sais pas.

The thread on her dress

It’s cut. Snipped. Unbound.

I’m bound.

Who’s bound?

You? No? Or yes?

The shards of mirror fall from your eyes.

Does it hurt?

It wasn’t me.

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The fabric of those words

Those tales spin like silk

You cut them short when you feel fit.

And add them on elsewhere.

Just one snip.

Ties cuts.

Bound by string.

As those tales grow

Sharp and quick and nimble

Your audience is starry-eyed

And you’ve fooled them all

Oh, you’ve fooled them all

With just one snip.

Ties cut.

Bound by string.

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Your thoughts always linger

And your audience holds their breath

Meandering on a word

Inhaling the scent of your cigarette

Watching as your smoke engages in a waltz with the wind

Who are you?

Really?

You never look in the mirror

You don’t need to

Or perhaps you’re afraid what you’ll see

And maybe a cold blue glance into yourself

May cease that suicide

Of your mind

Of that lingering word.

You blow smoke.

Who are you?

Really?

The audience is restless

Eager for that lingering word

The one that never leaves your lips

But dances in the smoke which flies from that stick

That stick always held between your fingers

They want to know.

You blow smoke.

Who are you?

Really?

Je ne sais pas

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We talk like poetry

But our voices hold no meaning.

And our faces fade into the text.

“How are you feeling?”

But we talk like poetry.

So you say.

You never say much.

We talk of meaning

in poetry of all things

Where voices hold meaning

So we think

“How are you feeling?”

“ça va”

So you say

As if French may mean more.

I want to find meaning

by talking in poetry

where my voice will take flight

Into pages of text

Where others’ faces fade

“How are you feeling?”

I don’t know much else.

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Sometimes you sigh for no specific reason. A breath dances on the chilled air and your eyes follow it until the sigh slowly evaporates. It lingers for a moment to materialize, and then disappears. For no specific reason, it disappears. Then, your lips meet the cigarette and you inhale your suicide, not because you wish to die, but because you can. It doesn’t make sense to you, does it?

“Est-ce que vous étes heureux?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

And you don’t know. Happiness is a mystery to you. It’s all relative, all man made, all pointless. So you say. And you respond: “So it goes” because, once, you read it in a book by an author whom others said spoke to your soul and was good for humanity. He was, of course, very human. He died too.

“Que voulez-vous?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

You say that wishing is just a hopeless fantasy. Why wish for something when life is so pointless and humanity so cruel? You don’t understand. You’ve come to the conclusion that others don’t care, or are too self-centered to ponder.

“Voulez-vous exister?”

“Non, mais je ne.”

And you’ll continue because you can. Your cigarette drops to the cement, a taxi goes by and you sigh, for no specific reason, you sigh. You watch as your breath dances around the chilled air.