Beneath the starry sky.


The gentle breathing that escapes your lips
hear the rain falling across your barren mind
your overwhelming warmth against my invading chill
that which clasps your bones with an empty soul
sip on our moonlight, which reaches out in tendrils
caressing your hair
visualize the fading eyes
steadily falling apart
the ivory scent of flames
which engulf our wooden bond
as we disperse across the void


I was knitted to fit you
The weight of winter showers have pulled my edges
I have been stretched to embrace your frame
I have not returned to the shape you recognize
You no longer wear me well
So I will count seven stitches to repair my wound
And the shape that is left will fit someone else

© David Sichler


I know it must frustrate you
to hear me doubt the good things
you see in me, but low self esteem
is like an incurable disease; it’s
yet another sickness I live with
and fight against and there are
bad days and there are better ones,
but never is there a day when
the whispering voice falls silent
and simply lets me be. You look
at me like I’m the most beautiful
thing you can imagine and I have
to fight with myself not to shrink
back and hide because if you’re
looking at me that intently then
you must be seeing the droopy eye
lid leftover from my eye surgeries
or the fat under my chin from the
way my jawbone sits further back
than it used to or how awful I look
with my hair pulled back and nothing
to hide behind. These are just some
of the demons I have fought and
I need you to know that I am still
fighting them so please don’t
think less of me for my weakness
and please don’t think it’s you
I doubt (it’s me - it’s always me).
I want to see myself the way you
see me, and sometimes I really do.
Please don’t ever stop thinking I’m
beautiful, even if I still try to hide
from the weight of the word. I’ll get
stronger, I promise.
T.K.A., i’m a mess, but i’m your mess, 9/30/14


Just So You Know

Just because I am not an open book,
doesn’t mean you gotta rip off my pages
or steal my chapters.
I am for one thing, one & only thing;
me, myself and nobody else.
I may be of little substance sometimes,
poorly expressed and vaguely uttered
but my feet knows where to
walk my own story.
Don’t confuse me with my ink,
or these ragged sheets,
or the number of years, months
weeks or days you’ve come to know me
because like numbers all these lose
their value once counted.
Don’t tell me what or who I am because
long before you, I’ve already been told
by myself.