Though the world may rage,
like gilded nightingales caught in a cage,
our souls can still sing softly.

The earth may crack with no footfall to faucet,
the fault doesn't always fall with the wind,
sometimes, the storm begins within.

This is why the search begins,
beneath the surface, where the silence knows our name,
where the echoes go to live.

the mirrorless child sits alone
wondering which truth is their own
for they were not taught of twists and plots
or shown visions of their own worth
comfort zones aren't made of heroes
who you become is not your reflection
which holds the truth
but the devil has his own house of mirrors
and I wouldn't dare to enter

Never a better day shall there be!
My book has been published.... finally!
By Choice Publishing just so you know,
It's called "Out of My Head" by...Damo.

A "Somewhat Haphazard Collection
of Original Rhyming Verse".... on
Life, Motivation, Relationships,
Mental Health, Mindfulness and friendships.

There are Rhyming Verses, sonnets too,
Limericks, Acrostics, Senryu, Haiku....
My thoughts, ideas and reflections  
For each readers consideration.

I'm so happy my book is out there,
Hopefully you can find it somewhere
And should you choose my book to buy
I sincerely hope that you enjoy!

My thanks to all at Hello Poetry
For all the support you have given me.
It is very much appreciated....
Y'all helped to create "Out of My Head"

facing deepest truth—
in the belly of the whale
finding purpose there

You were making the weather, I think
when you found me alone, all tethered in sinuous seaweeds
You had brought the sky inside with you.
What else could you do?

Damascus steel, your snarl
Hard, beautiful, sharp, distinct. An art.
You let the rain have your heart, for a moment, didn't you?
What else could you do?

Your footsteps are music that I can't quite hear
But your face is a season of songs--lyrics screamed at God.
Tear me from my torpor, please, no matter the violence.
What else could you do?

Distance means more than one thing, I suppose; and separation
Of land. Of daring. Of intent and of want.

List holy places and honey their names...
Eden, Asgard, Avalon,
Camelot, Elysium (Aluminum! Linoleum!)
I'd settle for Akron if you'd meet me there,
or Butte, even.

Your eyes buzz and hum or retreat and freeze over
and I? I follow their lead when I see them.
I can do nothing other.

Whenever I wander, I think of your shape
or the shape of your thinking.
I can do nothing other.

This, then, is a prayer now.
I pray with your name, which I'm always whispering.
I can do nothing other.

Locking eyes created a burning flame.
The look that lingers across the room,
or silently haunts throughout lifetime frames.
The gaze that wanders through mysteries, of who you might be.
Finding yourself in lingering thoughts,
the mind retreats into dreamscape spots.
Drawing images of creamy gardenias,  
Tangled up mazes of wing laced dreams.
Echos from the soul, like quiet thunder, willingly sparks.
Alluring radiance from breath taking oceans and streams.  
Weaving canvases of braided devotions,
only from your golden, sun lit beam.
As time folded on, you became the warm center of my vision,
my eyes forever found a path fate seated.

The pond by your father's place always froze over
The ice always reaching no matter whether the weather was freezing or not.
The silence on either side of the window panes killed you, you said.
You told me the patterns on the glass reminded you of bleeding.

You used to have donkeys, and they always loved you.
Bringing them pears and soft touches behind ears.

I was a boy, still, but it all made sense.
The way that your mouth moved
when whispering memories to me.
I remember that Spring that we fell through the ice.
Jangled nerve endings felt stabbing. Cold knives.
Wet hair. Lucky to make it out.

The last time you saw me you told me, "You're bleeding..."
I smiled and spat once and said I was fine.
I'd tripped on your driveway whilst walking to see you
and busted my lips on your mailbox.
You wiped one ring finger, stilled my moving mouth.
It was only a little. (Blood, that is.)

You wiped it again on my shirt.
You ***!

I wish we'd drawn pictures in the snow with it.

The Winter has claimed me, I think, since then.
Blizzards well up in the corners of my eyes from time to time.
Snowbanks form on my brows when I furrow.
I furrow a lot now.

The wasps in the tree at the edge of your father's place
Stung up your back and neck that Summer. Remember?
Calamine smile, you had me pull out the stingers.
Your dad's debit card, wiped across your back.
"Declined," I said.
You laughed.
And the pond, in my memory, still looks iced over
Even though that was July.
Right after my birthday.

Last month, saw the sign, said your father had sold
          his place. Our place.
             He misses you too.

I wish you here now.

We're all getting old, but I can't let myself grow.
I'm not any smarter, I'm just clothed in cold
And I forgot how to feel the way we did then.

I'd like another plunge, through thin ice, I think.
Anyway, I hate the Summer time.
The heat's too mean.
You know that about me.