Twisted Game

Sometimes I feel this must be one sick game.

To see how many times the heart can break, before it dies in shame.

Make us feel at one moment, loved and cared about,

Then lose everything and all purpose doubt.

Compounded Insults

You don’t know….though I wish you did,

The insults pulled-out from where they hid.

Piled up tall in the shadow of years,

In note of consents for all of the fears.

K. Aldaya, ’05