Pseudo-Proclamation, poem

I’ll say it—but I won’t.
I’m scared.

How stupid does that sound?

When you ask me, you’ll hear the ocean—
you’re on hold after all while I slip away

Innuendo: there’s lots
piled up between Us to which we contribute
Mutually
underwraps.

It’s frustrating, I know,
especially when the thought (or theory) slaps my cheek,
forcing my focus on This
sickening possibility—probability?
that our dance is just a Disney
dream.

Some of it is ‘cause only a fool would
believe
in the notion that we’ll just (together) “be”
with no bumps, scratches, scars,
on our egos and sanity
but my body wants to audition
the score anyhow.

I’ve said it but I haven’t.
and I...think the words would wither
before they touched your cognition of
What if?
for a couple of wondering wiles and bods.

I’ve said it. But I won’t.
It scares me, so I’ll Crush instead.
It’s infuriating, but at least
now you know.

Dexterity--poem

can you hear the beast
(it’s breathing, hot upon my neck)—
this mask may meet with each tantalizing
exhale
tempting the
demon
within
I touch up the veneer with my experienced
brush
keeping my guise in check

before It can claw its way from my
skin
I’ll assuage It with the promise of letting It
loose

when the Great One wanes its icy light
illuminating the vermin we’re to
destroy,
penetrating their facades
for I see
myself
reflected in their twisted
destiny

tear off the mask
breathe in
Beast out—
a calculating Monster with flare

cue from the Moon,
it’s time to embrace my
prey
with these Passenger’s arms
of this thrilling
ride
called
Fitting In

Crush-poem

I want to want you,
I want to say something
so you’ll turn your head and come
to me.

I want to ask you
for affection and attention
so we could curl up together
and exhale the night away.

Yet I’m sitting here, seemingly
daydreaming
lost in what if’s with every step
I take, back
towards where we first saw
eye-to-eye, and foresaw
bliss in our first “tell” without the
innuendo’d “show.”

And you’re on my mind tonight
again
it’s a repetitive thing—like how I’ve been
chasing my tale—
a cycle of wonder, wander, want—

Then what?

That’s so feline:
wanting things—
or seeming to and all the while
I’m wanting You

ash to Ash--poem

Let me be in the sun—
I’ll burn for the right reasons
instead of letting this blood
boil
for an unobtainable ghost.

Let me be in the sun—
I’m gluttonous for light
in this dust-cloud
of the delusions in
my waking dreams.

Let me be in the sun—
I’ll thrive or fly to
Oblivion—
at least I’ll be something new, something fresh
and flowering
or a soaring wraith of fire.

Let me be in the sun—
since you won’t let me be in you.
Any scalding I bear
will be gentler, dear,
than how I burned for
You.