everyone says good morning here;

even the trees with their dark, mossy fingers

i think the grass is greener here;

i’d like to sprawl out

and bask in the sun like a cat

without a thought to my hair

or the man watching from the park bench

i‘d like to laugh loudly at nothing at all

because i can

i’d like to smile at strangers

with every imperfect tooth,

to cross my legs on the sidewalk

and talk with the squirrels

a jumping spider

scuttled across my knee

and i didn’t scream

i think i grew a little

in the park this morning.

i think i grow a little taller

every spring

when, like the flowers,

i realize i let my shoulders hunch

when it was cold

We sat on the concrete wall.

Both of us sinking in sunshine.

But he asked me

If I've nearly died.

I said no. He said he did.

He almost drowned, you know.

Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning

But it's not the same.

And I said I'm sorry

And he said it wasn't my fault.

But so many things are.

Fifteen years of mistakes is cause.

But no effect has come.

I wish I'd nearly died too.

Maybe even finished off.

And he said to me why I wished

I had nearly died too.

"Is it so you can be more empathetic?"

He has too many kind thoughts.

No.

"It would just balance things out."

I replied.

you ever wonder

I asked

if our skeletons

glow in the dark

inside of us

or why there are

so many languages

or what name

my dog gave me

he laughed

then said

it’s funny

how questions

are often unanswerable

when you don’t think

to ask them

into those woods, where branches

will intertwine with teeth and

tongue and limb and fingers

where i will become the dirt,

the grass, the roots and remains

into those cavernous welcoming

arms - to be held and seen and

remembered until i'm forgotten

underneath it all, the earth,

flesh melting from bone to

create the ground for you

into those woods, where the

stone will whisper my name

until it sounds like wind

whipping against your ears

into those woods, and below,

where i will become the dirt,

the grass, the roots and remains

to be free

to hold my own life

in my own hands

to be free

to release the stagnant possibilities

and embrace the progressing unknown

to be free

to be able to breathe

as my mind unlocks its cages

and my spirit bursts from its cocoon

to be free...

(am i finally free?)

It’s inside me, benevolence.

Behind aged bars, in a prison cell of my methodical design.

Hope, love and humane concern in a locked cage while the world burns.

I am my own malicious jailer.

The warden of woe.

Harsh consequences, under the self-imposed draconian rule.

Set ablaze my soul,

I don’t want it anymore.

So many wasted words spoken.

Now my mind has collapsed inwards with a medicated intrusion.

It is a little broken.

For the truth of this poet's life, is I have over one persona and recollection of none.

I am a soul hoarder, diagnosed with

Dissociative identity disorder

I am them; they are I

This is my truth.

Stuart isalittlebroken Johns

Where the ocean meets the sand, this is where I stand.

A child plays in a shallow turquoise rock pool, his backdrop rolling waves a triumphant blue breaking safely away.

Memories of my juvenility.

A fading, distant recollection.

Lost youth amongst a million grains of sand.

After I leave my footprints, a vestige of my time here.

I am warmed by the child's jubilant laughter,

his unknown gift to me,

memories of my youth at the sea.