Stupefied scribble scrape down shredded wood with half lidded insanity
Squinting through rough lenses onto heavy thick slices of paper split to order leady loops across lined faces.
A collection of ignorant formality
Useless, this is.
Will they teach me how to dance?
Will they teach me how at all?
They will bundle up my time for 'free' and slyly label it differently. 'Work.'
Because I have nothing else to do?
Eat up the time I use to smile for the test scores.
Gobble up my love for him and replace it with a C that shreds my worth.
Tears slide silently down rims of chins salting the sheets at night
Stress slides down my throat and collapses from exhaustion.
'Push yourself.'
Do you think I am not?
I'm crying, because I am drowning.
Go back to sleep darling, because there's not enough time in the day to do what you want. There's only enough time to do what you don't want.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Happiness
Happiness is a yellow spoon, floating easy, A white dandelion seed in wind.
Driftwood swimming to the surface gasping after
a storm's roiling rumble rolls over.
Breathe
in deep the ice lemon smell
of relief.
It is
honey sick sweet sunlight seeping
through a broken home in shambles.
Its golden glue for the ones who mourn.
Torn,
no longer by the harsh cold rain, I feel warmth inside!
Take a breather kid, is what you are,
a wise one comforting heavy sin, saying
It's all right, I'll save you lovely
as your tears dry with mine
let our hearts me covered in dryer wash swaddles still warm
from their fresh wash, out!
Free from the rain!
The smile on the homeless man's face with a new pair of shoes.
So simple.
Her apple cheek sweat soaked relief expression
of a mother with a babe in her arms,
fresher than the feeling after church on Sunday.
Happiness is a yellow spoon.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Fresh cold bite
Fading winter light
Pine swirls on my tongue
as the ice freezes tired lungs
And gusts nip long fingers
a sly bunch of dogs
they howl at
the bright
new
moon.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I feel your heartbeat in my feet.
You swallow me up playfully
Your children floating daintily
they're dancers in the breeze.
Your other kids are tumbling
'Round about in their hovels
freshly broke slumber has got
Them wound up. I hold one in my
arms, I think she broke her wing.
Don't mind mother, I don't mind
babysitting.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Dear dreams,
You are hope, tucked neatly in a little wrapped box with a bow,
tucked under my night time pillow,
to be thought about as minds drift away on a midsummer breeze.
You are true to the thoughts of children. An astronaut, witch, and princess,
not in the flesh but living yet in their eyes, as their vagabond imaginations
sprout with their not so long forgotten angel wings.
Thank you for giving the poor man a purpose to clean up a suit and tie,
and to apply for the advertisement in the frozen corporal paper.
Thank you dreams, for wrestling over the wheel from ol' Tradition
and becoming the drive that swells in our souls.
Thank you dreams, for blooming in our hearts.
With love,
The Happy Ones
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Happiness is a yellow spoon, floating easy,
A white dandelion seed in wind.
Driftwood swimming to the surface after a storm.
Breaking sunlight through a broken home in shambles from the ones who mourn.
Torn, no longer by the harsh cold rain, I feel warmth inside.
Take a breather kid, is what you are, a wise one comforting heavy sin, saying
It's all right, I'll save you from the tears.
The smile on a homeless mans face with a new pair of shoes.
The expression of a mother with a babe in her arms, fresher than the feeling after
church on Sunday.
Happiness is a yellow spoon.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
The headlights dissolve night heavy ink
A new day is born from the darkness of the dusk before
We shriek and swerve around the curve onto the heavy bridge.
And POP! We should've stopped but our stubborn live won't give.
Our hearts are pounding in desperation, to get to our destination.
Freeze the bells and clear the roads for the blue Sudan
He pounds the horn and and screams at the glowing eyes, attached to floating bodies
Another pump of break and I am thrown out on the road
Rush of warm air as the door closes and another opens
I want to reach my destination, so I run, run, breath burning
Not another soul dwells in the hallway, with a door ajar like the mouth of a snake
Numbers, so many numbers as I trek up ridged mountains
I see a familiar corridor, the air gets hotter and hotter.
235, I swing in my desk and the bells holler in jubilation. "Right on time." His rumbling voice says.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC