Sunday, February 14, 2010


she works
creating lands of make-believe
taking away what should be there
adding and juxtaposing what should not

fantasy dribbling out of a leaky head
spilling onto a page
distorted images pulling through the eyes
(turning them the most magnificent green)
and sticking like candle wax
to where reality should be

and when conversation becomes too dull for her,
she looks to her hands
in a way that I can tell
she will never look at anything else.

he feels
music passing through him
seeping into his veins, it
spiderwebs down his arms
pooling at his fingertips
blossoming purple just under the skin.
his fingers start to taptaptap
like a metal detector
seeking the strings to make the incision
until the music pours out
heart-wrenching and beautiful

in polite company
he is asked about that "music thing"
"how's that going?" big goofy grins
and he searches for words
knowing he can't make them understand.

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