raw

tiptoe when you enter my mind,
else you might stir massacred thoughts and gagged verses.
tied together and hidden in the attic,
they sometimes come alive
in the forms of remorse and ulcers.

it’s not a good day.
thus, tonight,
before i sleep,
i may kill some more imaginations.

scrumpled papers, backspaces, and deletes are to be blamed

some keystrokes animate a blank page
if a paper is a plane,
words are its wings.
a shadow, cast by a table lamp,
stares me down
until i slash those wings

a strange fear prohibits me from being myself
i want to be free - free from fears
perhaps, some day,
i’ll burn the attic down to ashes
and you'll see me unfiltered and fearless
i’ll be raw

***

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