One Hundred Million Things

One hundred million things

that I wanted to say

flashed through my brain

from when I began to

slide out of the seat

until my feet

hit the ground.

I turned to

look at you,

opened my mouth -

but nothing came out.

So I gave you an

almost-smile,

shut the door,

and turned away;

I knew my eyes

were sad.

Theories of Identification

I think I view my life

through too many

lenses:

what was

what could have been

what I wish it was

what it is

what I distort it to be

what I wish it could be

what I hope it will be some day

what I suspect it will be

what they tell me to expect

So many lenses!

Nothing is in

focus,

anymore.

Large

blurry

shapeless

elements

with too many

theories

of identification.

Get Gone

Maybe I am a

coward.

Is it lack of bravery that

causes people to run?

Because my feet are

itching to get gone,

just like they

always do

the moment I have

reason to

fear.

I don't know.

I don't know.

I DON'T

KNOW.

I hope I find

patience in abundance,

because I am perhaps

the most skiddish

of creatures.

Gulf

There is a

gulf

yawning

wide

between us.

It emits a

startling silence

and my heart

cowers before its

depth.

I had not realized just how

far away

I had hidden myself

from this

until I tried to

cross the distance

last night.

Assault of Wordage

Tides of

conflicting

words

are assaulting me:

too much to write.

Pieces of poems are surging angrily

beneath my skin,

searching for an opening.

I would give in

if they would line up

and stand in order.

But in my

exhaustion,

no such luck.

Extreme Concentration

I'm messing up

my hair, again,

and biting my

bottom lip;

you know what

THAT means:

extreme concentration.

But I've got

nothin.

Perhaps my life will

make more sense

after I've slept on

the impossibilities.

Unlock Me

For months

my words were blocked,

constricted,

evaporating before collection.

It's a terrible thing

to be a writer who is

having difficulties writing.

The words came so

S

L

O

W

L

Y

.

Like scraping the dew

off of flower petals

with a toothpick

and trying to fill

a milk jug with the liquid.

Torture.

But then you reappeared -

words stream from me

like waterfalls.

I can't help it.

You unlock me.

Caterpillar Feet

All around me

the world is swirling with

color and beauty and sound

and discovery.

So many things to

write about,

to capture.

Why must I be

wrapped up

in such trivial things as

turning in homework,

finding a job,

cleaning the house,

when there is

SO MUCH

to be in awe of?

I suppose if all I did was

marvel at the wonders

of this world,

it would lose its

novelty

and I would be left with

nothing.

All the same.

I wish I had an entire day

to simply contemplate

caterpillar feet.

He Isn't You

I saw you leave.

You didn't even

LOOK

at me.

I'm sorry.

But listen -

you said

we were just friends,

so my revelation

shouldn't have hurt you.

Clearly I was right

in thinking

there was more.

I never meant to

cause you pain.

Press close to

The Healer,

and be free of me.

There can only be

one,

and he isn't you.

Horror

I'm speaking in

poems, now.

I can't help it.

The thin membrane between

Courtney-person

and

Courtney-writer

has been pierced with

haunting images.

I wish that I could

weep for them,

but my heart doesn't know how.

And, anyway,

salt-water words

can't heal

ALL

things...

The horror of it

somehow fascinates me.

Does that mean I'm a

monster?

I don't think so.

My soul has felt

much destruction;

I think sometimes it's

nice to know

I'm not alone with

scars.