To be lost in airway stops—
Longing for a full breath,

A full exasperated reveal of
The self—

Some may not bat an eye
While the splendor ponders

On a shelf requiring new
Brackets made stronger
Than what came in the box.

Display the truth, proud—

Whatever breath may be
Bottled

Will not rattle when shoes
Scamper by.

To fill the mounted board
With the exhales endured,

The inhales held too long—

Some may find the
Truthfully raw display

Breathtaking.

I am standing in the stomach of a tornado.

It is dark—lifeless—confusing at times.

It is loud—so loud that my ideas merge

Into a whirlpool of rapid drum beats.

It reverberates through my heart.

There doesn't seem to be a chance

Of things slowing down—unless I can

Cherry pick what's important—linking

Them in a chain I can use to pull

Myself out of the acidic world that

Seems too fast and far too loud.

When people connect through stories,

Sharing waves—ups and downs—

Getting to know the strangers behind
The faces we see every single day—

There is far more power in numbers
When you dig under small talk and

The generic truth-blocking formalities.

Comfort flows
Between

Inspired words

Gliding
In wind tunnels.

No,
There are no

Nails

To drop strings
Down to.

Do not tally
This

As a problem
Blustering

Away
Any ease.

We may be
Tossed along

A cursive line,

But when seen
Out of the

Tunnels,

There is us
And rhythm.

Who would want to be swept
Into the shadows—

Treated like an inconvenience,
A dust bunny that needs
To be wiped away—

I am not a serial doormat
Or a vial emptied—its purpose
Served—

There is no need to cast
Doubt—

Your discomfort is no concern
Of mine

When all you'd wish to happen
Is for me to disappear.

What do you do

When you have unaccomplished days—

Tasks are left on lists to fend

For themselves,

Errands are impatiently waiting

Just to find out their precious time

Has been rescheduled

At an unknown date, or if they're lucky,

Maybe tomorrow.

The only thing you are capable of

Getting done

Is making sure you're taking the time

To breathe—

So go ahead a breathe—

That's accomplishment enough.

Why are there secrets hidden

Under the wallpaper—

Whispers

Under layers of

Distraction and movement

That have the urge

To drape a sense of stability

Upon eyes that cannot

View the mildew underneath—

When will it be time

To tear the peeling barriers

Away from rooms we need

To repaint—

No one wants

To see what lurks—

Their eyes are only drawn

To the surface-level patterns.