What’s the point of a smile

if it doesn’t mean what it’s supposed to

then you’re in denial—

There’s more truth in a frown

when you’re bending over to see

the world upside down—

That sweet little kid,

the mind of a child

speaking a language we knew

before the fire went wild—

Who gave you that scar?

The one you hold onto like it’s

some kind of reward—

When I ask myself

this sort of question

it feels, like I’m someone else—

That sweet little kid

dug deep in a hole

still forging forward

when he’s got nowhere to go—

Time’s a delicate cut

healing over and over

your have and have nots—

Life’s a school picture day

we smile for flash bulbs

then like memories fade—

That sweet little kid

with a stomach of knots

his hands are bleeding, clenched

with a fistful of rocks—

The point? I guess is to give

hope to the child you lost

becoming this thing—

This burden of flesh

it’s beautiful yet

our soul is the reason

we’re here, now don’t you forget—

That sweet little kid,

that sweet little smile

we offered the world ours

now who, just who’s in denial?

Maybe it’s the Fall

maybe it’s the trees,

or maybe it’s

my lack of concern.

But there’s something fresh

in the air today,

stretching my legs

and caring about nothing.

his mind was made

up of the past, like

living in a rear window

her car it stalled

out in the back of

some place that they used to go

her ripped blue jeans his uncouth smile

the moon hung like a martyr

the engine gave no reconcile

her eyes said I live closer than farther

his hands were firm

when you held them

you’d swear they could give you more

her lips they held

so many secrets

when they kissed he could surely tell

her crooked smile his plain white t-shirt

was stained with the morning after

his apathy when she said her head hurt

felt like a sitcom without the laughter

they parted ways

like in the movies

left their marks and headed home

her mind was made

up of the past, like

either way he’s sure to go

she walked alone it’s what she asked for

the moon hung like a martyr

he held his tongue like eastern treasure

come on tell me what’s the matter

And just like children

stuck on an island—

while in line at the airport—

we turn order into chaos

clubbing one another

for a better boarding class,

elbows at the ready

on armrests made for war—

“This. Is. Ridiculous!”

shouts one

“It’s an outrage!”

cries the other—

All our flights delayed

with boulders on the mind.