lights dim, warm
like the tongues of tiny flames
grazing my skin.

walked-on carpet,
not as fluffy as day one
beneath my bare feet.

hem of my white dress,
tiny yellow flowers
blossoming at my toes.

chin and summer-flushed cheek
resting heavily, sulking
against my fist.

breathing accelerates.

the thrill.
the oblivion.
the fear.
the relief.
the loneliness.
the aching.
the feeling-found.
the feeling-seen.
the possibility--

--of words,
pen to paper.

right in front of me

"write,"
i command my fingers.

"write and never stop."

I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Real,
Or just figments of the author’s
Imagination
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it

I'm an athlete.
I can throw and catch,
and run in the sun-
all shiny and bright.
And you just sleep, sleep, sleep.

Look at me, mama.
I'm a writer.
I do poetry and stories,
all pretty and pink,
and all you do is,
sleep, sleep, sleep.

Look at me, mama.
I can dance.
I'm lonely,
I'll move to France,
meet a woman, and get married.
Look at the ants crawl through
the spilled red juice on
the grass, nature everywhere,
as you sleep, sleep, sleep. 

Look mama,
Look at me, mama!
I have children now,
all good and wise,
you're a grandma.
Why don't you wake up?

Please look at me, mama.
Open your eyes.
I'm lonely and afraid.
I'm old now, and cold,
and you still,
just
sleep, sleep, sleep...

Watch out!
She is fixing her broken wings
for a takeoff.