Reflective
There's a portal in my room
that shows me a woman that
everyone else believes in
but me-
she's lacking in looks,
intelligence, and wit.
But still, they have
undeniable faith in her.
This girl- she wears my clothes
but I'm positive they don't see
me; but her. I'm not even sure,
which one is real anymore.


Untitled
The senses haven't depleted
the mind hasn't left;
The doctor says it's sane
and the media agrees
but still-
Interior emotions haven't
done her much good lately
and they-
still haven't realized
exactly what she's made of.
At every turn,
misconception.
Oh, joyous delusion!
Encompass every aspect
make her true,
make her pure,
or at the very least-
make her believe.

Twilight
Girlish dreams tingle
as the star's twinkle
Dies-
without an apology,
lacking a reason.
The star is gone
from the deepest hole
that once held her.
The odds are against
but the numbers-
were mere paper fantasies.


Al Bush
Paper gloves and soot hands
with dusty guns resting in sun
sing of the days past;
of powdered wigs and snuff,
of tragedy in Verona,
valiant tales of Crusades,
the Romanov facade,
a geisha's touch,
the darkest space,
and the last great adventure.
They lost their intention-
in the fires of past,
the blazes of the present,
is now the one protection against
the icy totaltarianism of the future.
And love, passion
Jaded so deeply
and raped like Roman whores
Justice cowers like her sister;
Terror isn't reigning,
but we certainly aren't fighting it.