Skin Deep

I sheered the black sheep,
That wool itched so, anyway.
It weighed me down in the heat of your indifference.
Woven cloak of your shame.
Your shame,
My other name.
Awarded to me like a trophy,
By you, my referee
How dare I not do as you did,
Unpresentable me.
Not draped upon the arm of a rich man,
Not sipping from a golden shoe.
Pride is a subtle thing,
A fragile wing on a tiny creature.
And subjectivity forgotten,
In the law of your land.
The tragedy of funerals had,
with empty graves.
Burying the dead,
while they still walk and talk,
But not to me.
And what beauty I inherited from you,
You, who bore me here.
I can only show
In pictures
and a looking glass.
Faded memories
And broken dreams.

Blind Optimism

The ground trembled beneath our feet,

but you thought we were dancing.

Twirling and whirling,

hands reaching for something

that isn’t there,

you thought we were ecstatic,

but the wind you felt

you generated from

your bliss,

was a storm.

Untroubled by the darkness,

you commented upon the night,

though it was midday.

Stumbling, you thought

you were reaching for

new heights,

gleefully.

But you were troubled

by the dankness.

How it rose from underneath

the surface that is

my despair.

How you could not

explain that

one,

troubling reality.

That smell.

So you blamed me,

and though I tried to tell you,

you walked away.