Your quiet, creeping things

They threaten to compel you

to take the wheel

They whisper gently

And you question

A lover

or an enemy.

How did I get this way

And how did you?

You have all at once

grace for their torment

And disgust for your grime

Maybe keeping them from crawling out

Isn’t the goal

Let them crawl dig appear

Sift through the dirt

Expose themselves

You might find

They aren’t as powerful as you’d dreamt

The sun is out

And they begin to shrivel

Dirt, come with me

I feel as though there are deep

vibrant parts of me wanting

to emerge

How easy it is to point

the finger

“It’s you” or “You” that’s

keeping them trapped

suffocating or

wilting

How much harder (impossible?

it seems…) it is to get my

shovel

to get real quiet

to get real low

and dig things up

Instead of tossing more

dirt on

when no one is watching

And then blaming

whatever

whoever

is closest

Scorn

We idolize

madmen

But only once

they’ve created

something

generally agreed upon as

interesting.

Until then,

scorn.

The Chameleon

I feel myself changing before

their eyes

For their eyes

The second I sense my own skin

The background changes

And I lose it again

The background changes but

Why?

Is it changing

or am I?