Mother nature is the truest comedian of all time.
She saw my soul before I entered life on Earth,
And she laughed in my face as I was
On my way to your house today.

Have you ever thought of how the sky bleeds colors?
When the birds fly by, their feathers drop beautiful pigments into the clouds which cascade through rain drops into the city, and that is how I see color.
They fly everywhere, of course; my birds have cried every color there is. They change as my emotions shift and squirm like a worm. Never has there been only one color falling from my sky.

Soar, will you?
My colors are sore, and so are the birds which release them.
Release them, will you?

I heard of a girl.
Her pen was her sword,
Crusading the world.
She bled from her wounds
Echoing somewhere,
Crying from afar,
Not knowing why.

She wrote to gain silence
Somewhere in the city.
Somewhere in a city,
Her mind wrestled more loudly
Than the force of anger.
A butterfly prevented from soaring?

It was something she couldn't name.
It bound her wrists.
She could never breathe there.
She could never breathe.

So she rose from her seat and tried to leave,
But the floor beneath her started to fall,
And her heart was pounding, then the air was gone,
And there is no one else there but the pen  
so she bleeds.
She bleeds onto the pages,
And through her finger tips,
And lets the words cover her
like a blanket of unsafety.

Would she ever have the heart to escape?

—————

Earth paused to hear her voice.
It all stopped moving, and
The girl kissed the end.
It kissed her back as her sword fell to silence.
It was soft and easy.
But it was also final, and
She was not ready.
It hurt, coming so close.
She's still hurting.
But she's still there.
She continues to crusade
The pages, and the world.

She sat there
Tea in hand
Sitting in her room
Staring at the city
That boomed at night
And flew away each day.
With people who wept
And those who never could
She sat and watched
As the world taught her quietness
And Earth sat beneath her
Holding her warm and tired body.
She sat in that room
Thinking of the art
That the world has made.

The letters of the alphabet came in. They toppled upon one another, chatted amongst each other, and eventually fell into one giant pile at the center of her mind. They kept the child from sleep the entire night, seeming to ask her to listen to the shadows' story upon the ceiling of her room as she laid softly under the covers awaiting rest. The scenes on her ceiling were formed by lights of cars that zoomed away outside. She could see everything from under her blankets. What did the man in that last shadowy car do? Why did he weep as he drove away?

The painted man, covered in colors hidden by darkness, shot a quick glance at his own pile of letters in the back seat as he drove. They were different from the young girl's. They all shrugged against each other, grew weary from life, arms crossed and glasses falling down their noses as they sat. Fatigue stroked their heads like death does yours when it greets you into its arms, holding you like a parent does a newly born baby. "You have really done it this time," the letters said to him. "I know," he thought back to himself.
Snoozing and snoring, barely keeping the driver alert enough to finish his journey, the letters sat disappointed in him. Never again, he thought. Leaving it all behind, he thought, crushed, and crushing his daughter.

When you speak more with your poems than people these days, you know your mind is really more one with itself than another, and will be for a while. It has its beauty and is ultimately tragic, yet holds value and precious moments within itself. Leaving this place is difficult, but necessary when you near the end.

Sleep is calling.
She weaves your name lightly and tugs your strings like a puppet until you fall softly into bed.
She pulls you in gentle directions like the waves of an ocean falling right into place where they are meant to be.
My child, you will be fine. Earth is calling your name. She wants you to rest so you may awaken tomorrow when the sun rises and make beauty of her soil that I never did.