My back is facing the window.
I have to place my right arm on the chair’s back,
twisting my stomach and wrapping
my legs around the chair’s own just to
have a
peek.
The fog makes the parking lot look
mysterious and clouded.
Dreary.
Moss growing on breaking bark and
concrete is accentuated and has the appearance of
flowers,
blooming new scales every once in
awhile.
The grass is muddy with patches of leftover snow, clinging to
life before spring can give an
end to their short-lived adventure from
sky
to
Earth.
The snow’s once diamond-like display
is now riddled with
pollution and
mud. It
browns. A decomposing tree stump
sits alone in the middle
of it all,
softening at the edges, accompanied by
leftover leaves from the previous fall. They blend with
the wood.
Light heavily filtered through clouds darkens each
color I can land my eyes on,
but illuminates the Earth nonetheless.
I untwist myself, seated comfortably now in
my green plush chair.
I sink into it. My shoulders settle
onto my body. A heavy sigh
b
u
b
b
l
e
s
out of my throat.
I’m done
now.
Until tomorrow...maybe I will find
the strength to contort myself to the
left,
instead
of the
right.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
I wish life could be a breeze.
Like a bird’s flight, sunny, wind whistling
through the bird’s feathers, just soaring.
Imagine how the actual bird feels,
without a care on its mind.
Just flying through puffs of clouds,
absorbing the yellow rays…
Until the time passes,
the storm comes, and
rips the bird apart.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
What is reality?
I am a flower;
a beautiful, white-lipped daisy
Just unfurled into the world.
No rips, no tears. Not yet.
People stroke my velvety petals carefully and cautiously,
Careful not to break me.
Don't break me.
CRUSH ME.
I will just reform into a
****** white velvet mess in the dirt of stars.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
A girl, probably an
older teenager, stares at
the floor intently. Her ***** blonde hair is
wrapped into a messy bun, strands of
hair falling to her shoulders and
near her neck. She sits with
posture, shoulders back and neck tall,
seeming like a grown woman.
Her cotton-colored shirt has thin
sleeves, showing her arms and
collarbone. Her pencil skirt falls to the
middle of her thighs, a little too short
in my opinion. The skirt is embroidered with
small flowers out of
lace, glowing with royal blue
fabric. Her small diamond earrings and
miniscule jewelry
compliments her. She seems
stressed,
nervous, as she
bites her lip and
squints her eyes staring
at the TV. I hear the name,
Shelby,
and her head
lifts.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
Her hair was over her eyes
And her arms were always folded.
Large enough for an entire table, it seemed,
Her aura surrounding her a gentle poison.
It’s not that she was bullied,
It’s just that nobody talked to her.
And once someone would try,
She’d never have the strength to answer.
But everyone has their secret talents.
Hers was breathtaking.
And one day, in the school choir,
She knew these notes were what she was seeking.
Her hand quivered above everyone’s heads
And the director’s eyes landed on her.
His fingertip hit the starting note,
And she spoke, in a quivering croak,
“Whenever you are ready, sir.”
Her vocal chords whispered, vibrated, stretched
Until her voice was gone.
She made the floorboards shake
And made this song
her song.
His hands pounded the ivory
As her heart thumped to his beat.
His mind was turning,
Her stomach was churning.
She didn’t know what to make of his shown teeth.
And he shook his head no,
Because she was too quiet.
He spoke, “There are those who can sing,
But those who will break the silence.”
Her heart sank through her chest
And melted into the floorboards.
She retreated back into her hole once again,
And sang
No
More.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
When you reach for something, but can only touch with the barest of your fingertips.
When you try to speak, but the devil sews your lips together with the tightest grip.
Maybe instead it feels like someone grabbing you from behind and clamping their sweaty palms over your mouth.
Maybe it’s even God, telling you it isn’t the right time to speak.
How am I to know? I am not wise.
Is it possible God may not know the future?
Again, how am I to know?
Is that why we have the pain in our guts and the hush over our lips,
even with the will to talk burning in our veins?
Maybe it’s the hope that better things will happen.
Or denial that others are selling our right to speak.
To speak our minds.
Now I feel anger, passionate in my blood.
God is shutting me up when I strain against the bars holding me back.
Metal, unbreakable, my grip on the bars is useless.
I must speak. I must tear the thread, blow up the bars.
What is my weapon of choice? Scissors for thread? Grenade for the bars?
I cannot decide.
If I break free, what will God do?
Will he close my mind and command me to sleep by singing a lullaby?
Can God sing?
How am I to know?
This feeling-what could it be?
It may be stupidity…
Maybe intelligence, for God knows all.
But who knows all?
The smartest being in the world cannot know your feelings, your thoughts.
I have to speak. I cannot speak.
Denial.
That is all this could be.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC