The Map Is Not The Territory

Eskimos have a hundred words for snow.
Here in the land that made dysfunctional famous
we have one word for one thousand realities:

open your eyes to the faded ceiling
stare without interest
fall asleep again

rock on the toilet
stare at the razor on the sink
teetering on the edge

walk through a crowd
stare ahead fixedly
ignore all the saw-edged
whispers of your name

    walk through a crowd
    hearing nothing

my bones have turned to concrete
my flesh bruises itself on them

    I do not touch
    I do not taste
    my body is a feather
    anchored in nothing

I will never stop weeping

    I will never cry again

rock and bone have turned villain

    I am all that is wrong with Life

Daddy came in at midnight
it has been midnight ever since

    I lost my Daddy to cancer
    I am lost

everything is fine
and I don't give a damn

I need more than a hundred words.

Next poem in cycle

Other Writing