The Story

It was nothing until it was everything.

Music and

breathing and

living and –

so much…

Falling as easy as being alive;

blurring the lines and finding it more beautiful than

anything I’ve ever created.

Thankful.

It was everything

until it was nothing.

Just silence and

drowning and

existing and –

never enough…

Pulling the drapes closed and the curtains down

not knowing till I was stumbling around in the dark

waiting for applause that never came.

Forgetful.

Starting to fall asleep,

lulled into the nightmarish daydream:

a paradoxical bitter-sweet guilty pleasure that

always ends the same way.

A little too honest?

No picket fences?

No cheap applause?

Every story has a beginning…

but it’s only a means to its end.

Strings

An inelegant tangle of limbs and strings
just beneath the hands that let go,
am I a real boy now?

The world is made of ‘I told you so’s
and resolute silence,
and my voice is gone because it was never truly my own,
and my painted smile still hangs in it’s place
though I am out of mine

out of my mind
with nothing but time
on my wooden hands.

And you,
with your condescending offer to give me life,
and your hands still gripping the cross,
wanting me to want –
wanting me to beg –
to be strung up once again.

It’s never enough that I break…
I have to be broken,
and you must put me back together:

One hand will save and
the other will torture.
And I will love and hate them both in equal measure.