What People May See
Always a race against the initial cold shock, like running from the beach waves
The odor of the captive
hair, as dank and sour as the frying seaweed rot
Bubbles dance as the drain gargles pooled water
Fenced in by my own reflection
off the tiled bathroom

The vapor therapist soothes my watermelon burnt skin
The snotty cream dulls the fangs of the holey cloth,
Now nibbles instead of full bites
My long hair, the subway system for the bubble citizens. Final destination:
The Eyelands

The daily splatter art of floss on the petri dish mirror,
The flings and launches of bacteria, Dink, dink
like the heel clicks of rejoicing teeth
Branding the out-of-line keratin,
Need to set a straight example

What People Can’t See
Always running away, blindly, never towards a goal
The captive
fear of failure, and its failure to be revealed, left to rot
My spirit drained, gargling for air with no strength to go on
Fenced in by my own mental instability
Tiled over by the smiles and laughter for them

The so-rare-soothing for the hidden wound
Temporarily dulling the intensity
Not full for now, as I
Dream of the Final Destination:

The splatter of fear, faineance, failing, so unpredictable, so irrelevant 
The flings and launches against the temporal cage,
Followed by the clicks of society’s tongues
And now with morals out of line
Am I unable to set myself straight?