Muse

Alone in my head in the summer of 95,
I purchased a box to play the sounds of escape
in the rhythm of lyrics and passion.

Leaning on the moulding of my bedroom door,
gazing toward the bed of piled
unfolded laundry, screaming for more.

Sipping a newfound latte,
with Madonna in the tape deck,
as she had been for 12 damn years;
stories of longing landed.
---
I only mention this now,
as I realize this was the beginning of a me
beyond the bad that had swallowed the key.

Funny how we wallow in a song
we perceive as a wrong
done, rather than a life to come
in a wakening sun.

Milk

skin too thin
to deal with the seal
of a broken fate
that penetrates
deeper than glass:
thrown and broken,
left for cleaning
with naked hands.