An Anguished Woman Raises Her Arms

Screams sharpened on memory 
and buried in typography. 
arrows sizzle satellites


to draw a bead on me. 
Your words drip venom
from the dots of exclamation marks 
and sadness from 
the curves of question marks.

A lifetime of sorrow 
tangled in alphabetic operations.
Your printing press gleams 
metallic with misery.
Paper cringes beneath the weight of your expression.

A typewriter blows keys off
showering you with your omissions
Littering the oiled floor with parentheses.

Your screams are not for me
Not for me alone. 
Their decibels extend containing history.

My name my face my hands my voice 
are merely symbols and frenetic line drawings
I am him 
I am them.
I am those. 
I am the liar
the cheater
the devirginizer.
I am all that came before that you never unleashed your voice upon.
I am the page you have chosen 
The recording device. 
The playback machine. 
I am the punching bag for your brutality.
I am the one that can take it
Without unleashing a sharp tongue of adjectives into your ear.
When you open your throat and clutch your fists 
I ask you to open your channels. 
Listen.
Know that I can hear you
and I too can feel.

The Color of Sad

My sad
the color of
sad.

Black
is black
as shadow dark.

Inside
the color
ink:
a spot
of red.

Something 
to be 
healed.

Beneath
the pit:
the door.

The circumference
of black hole
radiates white.

Beneath
disease:
the cure.

A lesson
to learn.

All experience
pure.

Love
is pink.
I know fire.

Beneath
hard fear:
great desire.

Sad
the color
of sad.

What is
joy was
once mad.

My tears 
burst into
laughter.