Siberia, 35,000 feet

Somewhere in the back of my mouth
Is a dark bitter taste
Scorched copper and cast alloy
With a need to be spit on paper

Though my mood and outlook are good
Frowning embers long unstirred
Today all have feminine names
Old blisters on numb fingers rise
Itching liquid pressure pushes my pen
Questions of itís reemergence hold
Until the purge progresses

How one voice, thought lost
Asking favors of offers forgotten
Can trigger a review of old news
Gentle words remind me of cold slaps
Rarely directed at me in anger
Rarely directed at me at all
But felt still
No, not you
No, not again
No, never
I feel three and four syllable words bubbling from a self help text
Demanding to be used
I donít care to
Weíre all on the same page now
Letís get busy

This is selfish
As if their opinion wasnít valid, necessary, theirs
Please let me release this
These are only feelings
I am so tired

of being everything but
Anything but
I choose to involve myself
Your participation is not mandatory
If you do, my diagnosis
of psychosis
Is delivered

This is for you all;
The dragon thatís claws canít hold on
The pearl promised to someone else
The rocks that define my beach
The fruit from the neighborís tree
The discount jewels with clouds and flaws
The reflections that burn from the passing river
And most of all
The shadow that disappears when I turn my head

This is the part when I
And bring hope and positive vibes to all my quest styled scrawls
You know what?
Not this time.
The vents close
I reach for a glass of water
The taste departs
The ache remains.