when asked how I was doing
I couldn't cry; I could only stare
at the wall, the floor, the ceiling and feel
my mouth dry up like cracking dirt in the desert.
One thought tied to another, not by logic but with threads
of memories, frayed from being poked through confined holes
of propriety and accommodation,
All starting to collapse like a painfully slow rendition
of a "Die Hard: Love Hides" mega-explosion with
crashing, crunching concrete bouncing noiselessly.
I couldn't cry; I could only say
that all is well, ok, fine and getting
better -- a lie revealed by the tears in my eyes.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
at the wall, the floor, the ceiling and feel
my mouth dry up like cracking dirt in the desert.
One thought tied to another, not by logic but with threads
of memories, frayed from being poked through confined holes
of propriety and accommodation,
All starting to collapse like a painfully slow rendition
of a "Die Hard: Love Hides" mega-explosion with
crashing, crunching concrete bouncing noiselessly.
I couldn't cry; I could only say
that all is well, ok, fine and getting
better -- a lie revealed by the tears in my eyes.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
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