i am a child of moonlight,
a point of light in the darkness,
guiding the traveler home,
for it is through the darkness that I have come,
meek and mild,
ever-changing phases gently shifting.
i am the reflection of the sun,
quiet, unassuming,
noticed when i am in full,
and when i am missing,
scarcely seen otherwise.
but no one else moves the oceans as i,
inspires Man's imagination,
or fuels their passions to fever-height,
meets the lovers on a nightly walk,
and embraces all in silvery light.

you didn't know what to do,
this child was so different,
on his own page,
doing his own thing,
you could see his mind working,
but he stayed silent,
placid, subdued,
you didn't know the question to ask,
to open him up,
to find out where he went to in his head,
why he didn't fit in quite right,
you tried so many things,
but he learned too well,
too quickly how to hide,
and you never saw him.
but you labeled him,
stuffed him in a box
that seemed right,
looked right,
felt right to you,
but you never stopped and asked him.
he knew it was easier to let it happen,
rather than fight it.
he could be unseen,
go unnoticed if he never spoke up,
always getting by, just out of sight.
you didn't know how to deal with that.
he wasn't like the others.
he understood something differently.
he was always somewhere else.
i forgive you.

words cut hard,
not a precision knife-cut,
a-clean-slice-that-can-be-grafted-back-together-
and-b­arely-a-scar-is-seen cut,
but a jagged snaggle-toothed cut,
that breaks into you,
and takes a chunk or two out.
words leave a scar,
the kind i don't know whether it will be a fun story someday,
to wear proudly and talk about,
or something i hide from the world.
words heal, too -
to the right words, the cuts and scars are nothing-
easily fixed, made stronger than before.

i close my eyes,
and look through a lens,
i see me there, dancing,
twirling,
movements i think my body must know,
though i have never taken a class,
but i see me move effortlessly,
a choreography in time with music only i can hear,
fluid movements i could never achieve with this body,
a purely spiritual existence,
dancing for the pure love of the dance,
each movement a new emotion;
power and drive,
followed by lust and pleasure,
each their own radiance.
i see what there is inside,
and i know i am beautiful.

there's the me i keep inside,
safe behind the walls i spent a lifetime building,
not to keep others out,
but just to keep safe
from the unintended assaults
that come from being near people.
they don't understand what they do,
and the more i try to fit in with them,
not care, not notice,
the more i feel my secret self becoming corrupted,
and the walls get built higher.
to break free from this fortress
will break hearts and minds
and shatter everything they know
and i don't know if they can take it -
but i have to do it,
because this lonely castle as yet has no roof -
i can still see out,
see the daylight and let it warm me,
soothe me, console and comfort -
i have to hurry before the roof is built
and i lose all that's left of me,
just to save them.

they told me to go,
to visit the land by the sea,
and take my troubles with me - I asked "why?"
and they just shook their heads.

i went my own way,
and left my troubles behind me,
littering the places of my life with
junk i did not understand,
while they shunned me.

even so, i went on,
my trials left a wake behind me,
people, places, things i cast aside  as i went,
friendless and lost in the world,
and i saw their pity-filled eyes,
but they would not speak to me.

at long last, my path led me to the sea,
its force and power unmistakable,
for it had not past nor future,
it simply was.
and it beckoned to me.

i retraced my steps, picking up my castoffs,
back to where i started,
and they winked at me,
knowing smiles playing on their lips.

i took my troubles to the sea,
and threw them in,
myself along with them,
and at last i understood,
for the sea claimed all my troubles,
and washed me clean.

i came out of the water, and they were all there,
laughing and smiling,
and i was one of them again,
made new by the relentless wild forgiveness of the sea.

you were tied to the corner of the barn,
small brown patch on your back,
excited to be close to fun smells,
tail wagging, but i think
you knew what was about to happen.
i watched from my bedroom window for a moment,
and cried my tears into the pillow,
life without my first friend was about to begin.
i was told what happened,
you passed quickly, went to sleep,
a grateful sigh your last breath,
the vet's job done well.
my brother buried you in the pasture behind the barn -
he didn't tell me where.
but i found you, years later,
your bones curled up in a perfect sleeping pose
in the hollowed-out ruins of an old tree stump.
i still recognized you,
and i wept.

watching the lovers,
the streetlights casting silhouettes against the concrete
while my mind and heart stray to another time,
another place where that was us,
finding in the other a passion deep and longing,
a thirst, need, and hunger to sample the unknown,
to revel in the timelessness of an embrace,
where clocks don't matter and
the rest of the world can vanish with a single electrifying touch.
i remember when we could experience that thrill,
before we took each other for granted,
and learned to hide what we were feeling under polite nods and grins.
it was pure, then,
uncomplicated, and driven by nothing other than the moment;
a silhouette there for a moment and gone when the lights go out.

sometimes,
i write long posts that i erase,
not because i'm embarrassed,
or they were bad,
or the thought that seemed clear became jumbled and lost,
but because i needed to write it,
to see the words on a page defining the author at the keyboard,
speaking plainly, simply,
there i am on the screen in front of me.
i used to think it meant i was a terrible writer,
that i lacked talent,
intelligence,
the ability to convey my thoughts and passions.
but it's simply this:
to know who i am is the greatest gift in the world,
and the world doesn't have to know it.
sometimes, i write just so i get to read it.

he is always there, the eye-man -
when i close my eyes, i see him staring at me,
always staring,
accusingly,
frowningly,
judging every move i make.
i see only his eyes,
bright lights that cancel out any and all surroundings,
he has no features, save those intrusive eyes,
as though every little thing i even think about is open to him,
the eye-man,
my judge, jury, and executioner.
i am afraid of him now as i have always been.
he is me.

letting down the walls,
allowing the nightmare to wash over me,
a flood of fears and anxieties
i have worked so hard to keep at bay,
now consuming me
in ravenous hunger,
each one biting -
a million small mouths, each taking a piece of my energy.
i have always had enough to hold on,
to stay strong,
hidden behind the facade that i show the world.
now i close the door behind me,
accepting the mantle entrusted,
knowing that i will not make it through unscathed.
opening to the energy of the world,
feeling everything -
the hurt and pain,
sadness and joy,
success and achievement,
loss and grief,
feeling all the feels.

to look at life as
a puppy;
everything's for play.

i do not know you,
but in a fleeting glimpse
i caught your secret smile,
the one you might save for a lover,
to share over the top of a cup of coffee
in the after-glow of your coupling.

in that quiet moment,
your eyes sparkled,
and all around you faded,
the colors of the world outshone by that glow,
whose secret lies behind the half-smile.

"Mona Lisa, men have named you" comes to mind,
for your secret and hers are intertwined in the mystery of a moment,
a  glimpse,
a rare peek into your heart.

i am unfinished,
unpolished marble,
my surface raw and marked by tools,
but i am strong,
standing tall,
unashamed of what i am,
of what i am becoming,
growing each day in ways i could never before see,
a new part of me coming alive,
until i am ready to leap from the block itself,
to walk where i will,
a breathing monument to the spirit of art,
confident and strong,
kind and gentle, too -
the expression of humanity in all its forms.
i may be unfinished and unpolished,
but i am still a work of art.

chipping away at the block,
every ounce reveals something new,
like a strip-tease that moves slowly,
removing one layer after another in the most intimate of ways,
revealing the beautiful form underneath the layers.
show a little, hide a little -
some skin here and there,
deftly revealed,
slowly, over time.
every breath, every drop of sweat ,
shed by the artist in concentration,
the heavy chisels razor-sharp,
movements precise,
revealing the form at long last,
a perfection of the body,
art and life together.

there, in that moment of bliss,
i could live a thousand lifetimes,
and never grow tired of it,
that sweet, beautiful moment
when everything was just as it should be
and no one could keep it away, even us.

but life isn't one moment,
and as they fade one into the next,
we see not the moment,
but the mosaic,
many little moments falling into a bigger picture,
the events that make up the past
forging the path for the future.

the moments are fleeting,
and yet,
i long for just the one,
that perfect moment,
caught in a snapshot,
frozen forever in memory only,
framed on the wall.

i will never know your name,
or your face,
or the loved ones you left behind,
or the people you helped -
and saved.
i will never know what it was like,
running into that place,
unsure if you would be coming out.
i will never know the torture of those last moments,
when you finally knew that you'd be coming home sooner than planned,
only to be buried in the ground.
i will never fully understand your sacrifice,
but i hope that you know just how grateful i am.
Thank You.

you can fill it with thoughts of another,
or perhaps love,
or any little thing you can imagine -
but when that little tiny place -
the one you go to when you're hurt
where no one can reach you until and unless you let them -
when that place is empty,
and the emptiness is so vast the little place expands
until you believe it will take over you completely
and all you'll be is an empty shell, going through the motions,
that is when you must realize the emptiness isn't really there -
it's filled with fear and doubt, jealousy and resentment.
that's why it feels so empty -
there's nothing good there.

it is a whisper on the wind,
the mournful expression of loss,
the way the earth cares for each of her children,
as they lay dying in the trenches dug deep into her soil.
she screams out in the only way she knows how,
a hurricane, a flood, an avalanche,
an earthquake, a plague, a famine -
we call her weapons tragedies, because of the loss of so many people,
it is her way to try and restore the balance,
keep what is left of her for the rest of us to live.
If only we could hear her cries
the ones she whispers on the wind,
rustling the leaves of trees
and rolling over the blades of grass.
When her breath brings the scent of smog and industry
instead of the scent of flowers.
We are too busy to hear the earth,
and we are surprised when she finally shouts at us.

some might say it was tragic,
others, a miracle,
but i died once,
a long time ago.
my spirit was crushed in the avalanche-
an all-consuming nothingness
that shut out the light,
squandered my existence,
and extinguished the passion inside me.
i didn't stay that way,
rising again,
a new resilience found,
a decision to press onward,
furthering myself,
testing myself,
pushing my limits of understanding.
that is what death will do for you-
it will show you how to live again.

this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
it's growing, it's changing,
there are bumps,
there are cuts and scrapes,
there are bruises,
there are hurts,
there are times when I'm slow to understand,
there are times when I'm faster than you,
there are hugs,
there are kisses,
there are passionate nights,
there are distant ones, too,
there are fights,
there are make-ups,
there is longing,
there is forgiveness,
there is loss,
there is gain.
there are a lot of things that go into this me-you thing,
but this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
i like it.

there is no pain
like knowing what is coming,
feeling the crushing weight
of something i can do nothing about
no matter how hard i try.
it's exhausting.
it makes me want to dig deep inside myself and go there to hide,
refusing to deal with the world, with this life,
and all the people in it any longer.
i can't help them,
i can't stop them.
but i feel everything they do,
before they do.
especially their pain.

they were made for holding on,
for building and carrying,
for taking the heavy things that others cannot.

they were made for war,
for destruction and killing,
for fighting against another in battles that change the course of men.

they were made for gentleness,
for caressing satin cheeks
and wiping away tears.

they were made for healing,
for applying salve,
for deftly bandaging wounds of those who could not bandage their own.

they were made for safety,
to hug and hold close,
for catching tears of those loved ones who were breaking.

they were made to love,
these big strong hands of mine -
and they're pretty good at it.

ten words.  
nine are wasteful encumberances;
one will do.
"enough."

i love to watch you
in the pre-dawn hour,
your nakedness is your purest self-
delicately crossed legs, a blanket draped
over your hip,
your ******* inviting me
to come closer for a taste,
to fuel the desire  that waits inside,
longing to be set free
with a kiss, a touch, a tongue.
I don't know if it's my imagination, now,
but your scent wafts to me,
each part of you different -
your neck, your arms,
that spot just above your belly -
and the place below.
I long for you, my lover,
in that time stronger than most -
to connect our spirits in a single moment,
sharing the sweet ****** embrace
that lovers know,
and the release of the spirit
that revels in our morning ritual.

movement is slow,
deliberate action,
practiced until perfected,
then practiced more,
the slow forging of the mind and body into -
into what?
A weapon,
a tool,
a method,
a philosophy?
Why not all of them at once?
Memorizing the steps,
the sequence,
aligning each and every moment with precision,
there is no room for failure.
Failure is the difference between kings and gods.

I got an email from you today,
it has been years,
I thought I would never hear from you again
after what happened.
There was nothing in the message,
just an empty page,
and I was glad.
You followed up with a second -
said you were deleting and accidentally hit "send,"
and something about an intense conversation.
I could have opened the door,
responded, let you back in -
but you damage me when that happens -
and I cannot allow it again, ever.
It's not healthy for me.
It never was.

I want to hold on,
cling to the past that I have known,
safe and comfortable in what was -
it could be that way, forever.

Letting go of that is scary,
it takes a measured practice and puts it out of sorts,
a whirlwind ride, a flood of emotion
that I do not want to ride -
it is unpredictable in nature,
unbalanced,
a tipped scale where value is absent,
I do not know which side to be on.

Holding on is wrong and feels right.
Letting go is right and feels wrong.

"I know I haven't made much time for you," he said. "But that will change."
My father's words fell like thunder on my young ears,
the opportunity I had long awaited,
at last arrived.
I got three years with him where we grew to be friends,
understanding one another in an unspoken way.
I thought it meant that I was exactly like him
and tried to mold myself in that vision.
But I was wrong,
for I am much more than he could ever be,
I understand the world differently,
I take the things I learned from him and build upon them, creating something he cannot comprehend.
I do not recognize his limits,
but constantly push them.
And yet, I am no better - just a different man,
with a different passion and fire burning in my heart,
my own definition of the masculine,
breaking free from the traditional.
A new man.

I have lived my life a caged beast,
passion and fire burning within the deep secret places
I don't talk about,
my potential knows no limits,
but for those set upon me by this world.
What happens when the beast is set free?
Will it emerge a phoenix, resplendent in glorious rebirth,
capable of greatness and beauty?
Will it be what I have always feared - a monster that seeks to destroy,
uncontrollable, fearsome?
the only way to know is to let loose the control,
unlock the cage,
unleash what has been kept for so long -
and face the beast inside,
no matter what it may bring.
I am ready.

I drink too much,
think too much,
sigh too much,
cry too much,
be too much,
flee too much,
need too much,
bleed too much.

I love too much,
touch too much,
hide too much,
try too much,
care too much,
share too much,
buy too much,
and die too much.

And it never feels like I do any of it enough.

There are times
when I am so hungry for you -
your body, your fire,
your mind and soul,
your passionate will -
that I want to throw you on the bed,
our clothes becoming shreds as I growl that way in your ear -
that special note nobody knows about but me.
Our bodies together, entwined in lust-filled craze,
Gazes plunging deep, baring each other's sacred spaces,
the intimacy of mindless understanding,
the recognizing of two passions that burn as one
in those moments before thought creeps back in and our walls go up again, and we hide from each other
in plain sight.
Like we used to have it,
when we were new and shiny,
and our expression was unbridled.

It was only a small part of this world,
a tiny place of land
that taught me so many things.
I knew who I was then,
though I never told anyone.
No one asked.
They all thought they knew,
and they left me alone.
I knew what was expected -
who they wanted me to be,
and I tried.
So many years wasted,
trying to be what I thought I should,
not who and what I was,
while inside, torn between
my two selves.
And I chose between the two,
never understanding
there was no choice to make -
for I am always both.

Now, a new choice looms in the darkness,
in that place that hides along the edges of the eye,
just missing it, each time I look.
Until I call it into the light,
name it, accept it,
absorb the hidden me I have long denied.
I am no longer content with the definitions of others.
I seek to define my truth.

when you see so much -
anger, hatred,
despair, greed,
selfishness, neglect,
loss,
pain, hunger,
the ugliness that is in this world -
and you know you're too small to fix everything.
you have to choose-
to ask what gets your attention today,
what wrongs get righted,
what pains get eased -
what torment you can live with because the choice you said "yes" to means you had to say "no" to another one.
and then, you choose to take a moment - just one - for yourself,
because you're empty,
hollow,
a shell of a person going through the motions,
dead inside,
and you feel guilty, because there are still so many in need.
Always the choice.
Always the pain that comes with it.

I learned it as a child,
the ability to hide myself,
deep down in the recesses,
away from the light,
away from who I really am,
because that's not what the world wanted to see.
I began to believe in who I pretended to be,
the false accomplishments, the lies I told on my outer face,
ignoring the depths of me,
where the kernel of my being languished.

I lived that way for so long,
finding a spark every so often that pulled,
pushed, prodded, cajoled, enticed -
anything to get that secret self out into the light.
Each time, a little progress, before it would slide back,
assuming a new identity to put on to face the world.
Comfortable again,
safe, hidden, able to observe in secret,
and never having to face the uncomfortable truth -
I am much more than what I seem,
much deeper than I tell,
and more beautiful than I appear.

They teach you how to hide as a child.
No one teaches you how to seek.