The Masquerade of Ink

Ink flows as a trickle from this pen
onto these sheets of white.
I fall,
and flee my prisons of painted self-portraits.
My mind has become an unreachable end.

A maze of eyes stares,
blinded from paintings unprepared
for my audience.
Their claps orchestrate a silence
as unreal as my smile,
pasted to bleed my identity.

Emotions stretch thin,
and resemble my chaffing lips,
that writhe monologues
my audience cannot decipher.

Light floods my eyes.
My lungs breathe in burning truths
buried before me in faces,
in smirks,
in realities.

Revealing curtains are drawn
on my stage
as my blood flows poems
I shall never recite
to You,
my Audience.

In silence,
as my blood trickles ink,
I'll write.
I'll wither.
I'll fade.

Negatives in Candlelight

Dried petals
lay discarded and decrepit
on the floor.
Like the memories I
used to moisten
with my tears,
those flowers lay dead
with years
of neglect--
Just a fading memory
of a mistake.

Blog, Take Two

The Attic

Old clothes
lay under years
of memories.
Ripped and torn,
they lay unworn,
unused.

The mismatched socks
no longer search
for their pair;
the shoes no
longer wish for
new soles.

The sweaters
have succumbed
to moths,
their fabric punctured
by time.

The clock ticks away,
uncaring and numb
to its dilapidation.

Threads lay unraveled
and frayed,
no longer desiring
refashion.

Change,
you are unwarranted.

Time,
you are unwelcome.