I cannot live inside the words I write
I create life inside a poem
where real emotions are reflected in a house of mirrors
My self is d    is     tor       ted.
Shakespeare was right
eyes are nothing at all like the sun
our bodies reek compared to perfume
So why all these false comparison?

Life is like a cheap theatre
playing dollar flicks
entertaining only ghosts
gum under the chair
and butter stains on the cushions
all the while Holly Golightly tries to figure out who she is:
"I'm not Lullimay anymore, I'm not Holly either
I don't know who I am..."
Sometimes I feel like I get paid fifty bucks to go to the power room.
This window ledge does not let me balance
I keep swaying between an outside and inside
never quite fitting in either
My voice, in words
reflected into the mirror to infinity
against the black wall of death
Ever behind me
Ever ahead of me
Ever indeterminate

            Picadilly Circus
                                        Orpheus
      Blank Stare and a Tear
                                  Unrooted Words
  Your Hands
                     Call Me Fair Star

endless reflections
Bouncing
Trapped in between a looking glass.