Running from Ghosts

Stereotypes and 

clichés. 

We embody them,

we defeat them,

but then of course-

we create them

I am just like that.

I was just like that.

I am nothing like that.

and then of couse,

I want to be like that.

and

I will be like that.

There is no escape

but then again

there's nothing

to run from.

Bare Feet on Cold Tile

There are no compassionate breezes

that pass through the

inside of a warm room

in the midst of 

a sleepless

night.

Only feelings of ache
howl through hollow spaces

as I stare back at tossed

sheets

highlighted by a single, yellow light

stumbling through 

from the bathroom door.

Cracked porcelain tiles are

vibrating in my eyes

and I can't help but stare blankly at the

stale water sitting in the bottom of 

the bathtub-

leaving a little

stain

as it dries.

The figure

leaning on the edge of the bathroom counter,

looking back through a cloud of water-spots 

can't be me;

a phantom of insomnia-

a trick.

Imagery fit for a mindful doctor

float around the blurry thing-

allusions to events from the past week:

laughing children,
toys in a rain gutter,
a dead dog,
the seam of a women's torn stocking and
a pile of loose, blank paper
sitting on a desk by an open window-
fluttering in the wind.

failures

and fantasies


in a dark,
warm,
room.