The Attic

If the attic could talk,
what stories would it tell?
Old clothes, ugly ties;
what’s that smell?

Boxes of pictures,
a dusty bike,
“we might need that lamp some day,”
presents we no longer like.

If the attic could read,
what stories would it tell?
Old love letters, report cards;
a trombone we meant to sell.

A life of collected fragments
sit covered in dust.
If the attic could rearrange the randomness
what would it say about us?

Who Are You When The Lights Go Out?

No need to smile.
No one is looking.
Be yourself for awhile.
No one is thinking
a depressed you even exists.

Maybe that smiley face the world sees
IS the real you,
even if your mirror reflects
a curmudgeon in the dungeon

Cry for awhile.
No one is looking.
Swim for awhile
till you start sinking
in a sea of the life you think you missed.

The happy person everyone thinks you are
might melt into the night
and turn sour and stale.
The real you can hide in the shadows.

Or live for awhile.
No one is looking.
Hike for a mile
through a mood of your making;
the optimistic mood on which you insist.

The positive person you once thought you were
can walk out into the light.
Life is a struggle
but you’re not alone when the lights go out.