For what, I ask, do you waste yourself 

Raining on a beautiful canvas while it’s drying?

Decanting your acid into my spring waters? 

Destroying what you haven’t created?
My happiness, does it counteract yours?

Does breaking bridges gratify your appetite for destruction?

(But all you can hope to achieve is a non-calamitous dent.) 
I’m a leaning tower that defies 

The gravity of your acrimoniousness 

That persistently but futilely labors to 

Cause my fall, my breakage. 

But the integrity of my substance 

Exceeds the strength of your pull,

Keeping me from shattering,

Keeping you from triumphing. 
The hand that holds the knife is not

Guaranteed against being cut by its own blade. 

The arm that swings the hammer of destruction

Will itself debilitate, courtesy of its weight. 


This is What it Feels Like to be Human

With hearts like diaphanous, broken wings,Pervious bodies on beds of rusted nails,

Minds like speared chrysalises, contents spilling,

We let go of, we lose our quintessence.
We are rocks that fragment under pressure,

Sere twigs that snap, void carapaces that

Crack under the clubfoot of distress. 
Creatures we are whose endurance has

The lifespan of a squirming fish out of water,

Whose vigor wears like watercolor on 

Parchment in the rain. 

Whose patience is as evaporable as dry ice

In a funeral house. 

Whose strength is an armor forged out of a base alloy,

Denting at the slightest touch, 

Puncturing at the hits of dull toy arrows.
Our walls of defense are built on sand,

Our wills are as precarious as a house of cards 

In a room with open windows,

Our unattainable wants, unfulfilled, are balls and chains 

We drag along with us. 
This is what we are:

Creation recreating, 

Uncreating ourselves. 

This is what it is,

This is what it feels like

To be human. 

But All Men Judge

Judge thou not, and be not judged. 
Your eyes, though they see as much as

A shadow from the viewing side of the screen,

Are shoehorned to be self-blinding searchlights that

Seek and see what is not shown, not showcased. 
Your tongue its bearer’s estate will not soil,

But will let loose a volley of venom-tipped arrows 

At the defenseless repute of another,

An ivory fabric you motley with black words and scarlet. 
How do you, a closed museum of dark secrets beneath this veil of flesh, 

Conceive yourself fit to pronounce the idle verdict?

Even the white-wigged hammer-pounder’s judgment can be flawed. 
Judge thou not, but all men judge.

Innocent Naïveté 

Susceptible to sugarcoated venom, Always on the side of the blade rather than the side of the hilt, 

Being given a band-aid after being given a stab. 
That viscus inside is bullet-pocked, but still beating; 

You revet fortresses of fortitude for them to be spider-cracked 

During another’s target practice. 
Pin cushion and punching bag of animate flesh, 

You take draughts too frequently from another’s bitter cup. 

Why make yourself a cuspidor, a silent butler or a hot-water-bag? 
Why, in your naivety, be the tissue that mops up another’s salt water? 

For, after you’re used and reduced to pulp, 

You find yourself among all things used and refused.