When you're standing in line with a bottle of pop, the world seems like a different place. Your perspective has suddenly changed. The things that once seemed to matter or cause a rush to judgement and condemnation no longer weigh the same. The clerk, unconcerned with your need for assistance, contemplated suicide all night long and is looking for someone to convince her either way. You can sense these things. You find something to start a conversation, the weather, the prices, the President. Lastly, you tell her to have a nice day. Tonight she'll go home and live.

At the end of the day, when the lights are turned off, assessments are made. The receipts collected in the bottom of your bag don't seem to add up. You give up trying to reconcile the differences--until tomorrow. The morning sun will provide a different perspective. For now the moon must rock your mind to a place of ease. If not, the walls will warn you all night of the to do list posted on the refrigerator reminding you that you're out of cheese. The slippers on side of the bed can only give you an internal view. You must check the bottom of your boots to examine the gunk that has attached itself for the ride.

Taking the Side Exit

I want to move when every one else is standing still. To unlock locked doors and pull the tags off the pillows that say "DO NOT REMOVE TAG". Why??

There's a box people try to put you in from the time you stop taking your meals through a bottle until the time that method is necessary again. But I'm refusing! I imagine I'll be excommunicated and my front row seat on the pew bench will be revoked. But it's better than standing in the midst of the congregation screaming. I have considered that on occassion, but decided against it. To quietly go insane is better. You can still outwardly dress as if everything is normal while on the inside deliberation continues.

The rubble on the side of the road was stacked neatly in a pile. The pickings looked tempting, if you dare to be seen rummaging through your neighbors trash. It's funny what people disregard as meaningless artifacts. Photographs from family vacations, lamp shades, stained rugs and worn out lawn furniture are the usual findings. But sometimes you can find a four slice toaster or famous artwork mistaken as junk. A piece of art you can actually take to an expert and discover you have stumbled upon a lost treasure tossed away like memories from a photograph.

Anxiety

The waves wash away the shore.
Gnawing away at it, the ocean claims it as it's own.
The prints no longer immortalized in the earth.
Washed away as if they never were.
The scent of salted waters remain scattered in the wind.

He's my portion
No one else can fill
This place this hole

Where my tears don't cease
Where my heart is bruised

He's my portion
No one else can cover
This place this hole

Where the wind is cold
Where the cover is torn

He's my portion
No one else can hear
This place this hole

Where my echo is loud
Where my moans are unheard

He's my portion
No one else can see
This place this hole

Where the gauze is soaked
Where my wounds have stained

He's my portion
No one else knows
This place this hole

Where my secrets lie
Where I whisper prayers

He's my portion