WordWeight

i read somewhere just like stamps, or leaves, or memories trauma can be collected it can grow and get passed down the line much like brown eyes, dimples cancer, and depression. they say evidence is traced - redrawn in blood pressure and that's the reason one of the reasons why certain populations have it more than others but you can't make me believe that i lose my words because its a ghost imprint of my grandmother's fear of confrontation my trauma is my own and i'm too selfish to share

You are not the main character Of some iconoclastic battle Defending those who stand by you Or with you Because you can't stand against evil You can't even stand You chase fever dreams Butterflies That will always be out of reach A Don Quixote of your own design And I've lost count of efforts Of being your Rocinante Of leading you To a new More beautiful Dulcinea So fight your windmills. I'm not your Sancho. I never was for this.

Sworn to carry my burdens. But I don't think you can can. They are something I have left behind Somewhere beyond the screen You can't touch them. Even if you see them Even if you are the only one who Sees them So swear them away instead. Take a walk with me to High Hrothgar. Let's get trolled. Stay until I get a a grey beard Or at least until I grow one And can handle my burdens on my own.

She held up a frame Tilted to angle her crooked smile And addressed Her audience of one "I am now a work of art." He took it away - Set it in the firewood stack Not looking back His arms around her "This is your real frame And it moves more than you. You are a piece I made So I know It will never define you. Because art as fine as you Can never be contained."

Was it that your fingertips Always long and impatient Ached to meet with mine? Was it that your eyes Happened to see a ghost In the memory in my name? I always thought that I was a grain lost in your sands of time. But here we are. I'm a profile you collected Like a leaf on the ground Like a cracker jack prize sticker or an unread magazine. Or an old photograph of someone who spent everyday Talking about things that were small like grains of sand. I hit accept, because for me you were a shell I collected One that was so painstakingly beautiful Because of the sounds I could listen to When you were in my ear. I hit accept because I wanted to know if you still made Those wonderful wonderful effects, if your words were still music - Symphonies of stupid speeches and serendipitous songs. And so I accepted. I asked a question. Won't you let me know?

They say you have a golden touch That you ease down the throat Like the sweetest of waters Or a really good lie that one wants to believe in. You some how magically appear In all the lunch boxes Because you are a force That cannot not be undone Yoda said try not, do and so You, do you. And I am allergic to you. I know this because before When I was at a birthday party Barely 5 years on this earth I tried to take you in And you fought Caused my body to raise up heat Almost as hot as flames Cause you fought like hell and brought all its heat. I am allergic to you. So tonight, burn me. I won't hide. Just burn me Enough for the bleeding of my heart will stop Because I got a cut And I need a quicker action than a needle can do.

Where did I confuse this long silence For the slip of my fingers on the pause button? The lines on a page can connect and make symbols but where are the cymbals’ crash the well placed imaginations of a dying onomatopoeia? I’m straining to listen To what I once heard to so well. The metaphors were once The sopranos of my hands. The personifications that would press on my mind Like the black and white keys of a yes please or I don’t know. There used to be music in my writing. But I’ve been on this rest bar too long too long, to say that I’m still playing.

Your heart is a processor And I've been moved around. I saved myself in your files I know I have But maybe I screwed up the name, The extension, Or was it overwritten?

There's a calm after the storm, A quietness inside among the noise Even when a troubled world is the norm. To keep the light in our eyes is a choice; A troubled world does not mean we have to have a troubled heart. Came, a peace of mind When from self, I resigned. I want to be shattered; That parts I've built for myself will fall like a facade they are. Unbecoming what I'm not; To go back to beta. Who were you before the world told you: "this is who you are"? Back to the beginning, Back to original design To be malleable once again To be unhardened Without ornaments, Without walls; To be broken. To come simple; To comeback renewed; To unbecome what I'm not That the parts left Are what matter most.

that the world is not all frosted window or pixelated screen cartooning the moment into fiction. looking back is neither a kaleidoscope of meaning or exhausted glass in the violent hands of a toddler; we must learn to consider blindness without also having to mention corrective lenses. i mean to say something of desert, that all memory is a house in a field at the end of a winding road or an empty we cannot fathom. outside there is marching, inside an echo. little has been said of justice, only in name, damp and hanging from another still mouth. the seers see and we refuse to listen. the past tumbles across our windshield on another strange planet and we brake, pull to the shoulder, take a polaroid of the asphalt, squared at our feet.

I guess it starts with pots and pans steel, copper, cast iron, again an egg cracked with a sizzle bread jumping out of the toaster with a yelp no blood drawn yet, just some residue from my dreams drool on my pillow past lives in my coffee i guess it starts with eggs fried onions- cheddar cheese but there are some things that escape the calm like the vise on my stomach and the qualms tangled on my tongue the whales in my throats that don’t bellow but whisper my wrongs and that’s when the ice comes in bones shaking like a western tambourine and the ground rushes up like a swallow and my hands are tracing hardwood and my cheek is sudden cold, sudden hollow here is midday and the crows outside my kitchen are on strike with their loud protesting- their angry picket lines but I digress- put it all aside in the afternoon the world enters into my room I can be invisible, separate, shuttered or be equivocal, visceral, simple a liminal, interconnected ghost dandelions blooming through the