There where never monsters in the closet
or under my bed, the only monsters
that I face are the ones that come at out in
the dark with the soft voices in my head.

The voices fight a battle between the
past and the present, the fears of my past
laughing as my future struggles to crawl
towards the dim light just like an infant.

But unlike the innocent infant I will
never reach the prize unless I learn to
face the shadows that claw my back carving
scars that I must hide with layers of lies.

Tingle in my palms, that flutter in my
stomach I feel before I throw back my
head as the warm comfort of your embrace
fills my insides. All that was once clear is
now blurred under your spell. My fingers can
no longer grasp on the smooth fabric of
reality. I fall into a clean
tunnel surrounded by the screams of all
my imperfections, self accusations.
Stumbling down this corridor inside
my mind I find the dark cobwebs that feel
slippery to the touch. I hear my voice
echoing from someplace far away, I
hear my screams, my moans. I feel foreign hands
across my shuttering chest. My fists bleed
as I pound against this prison made of
my bad choices and the warm blanket on
my raw senses, that pulls me deeper in.

Can you see the sadness
The constant obsessing is madness
Do you wonder where the smile is
Oh why I am no longer his

Did I ever love him or did I settle instead
Those sad thoughts always in my head
The pressure to find someone oh so strong
Too think all these years maybe I was wrong

I certainly do not regret any of the years
But lately there are too many tears
I think of what the future has in store for me
But know the future is not for me to see

I tell myself take it day by day
The  voices telling me that's the only way
I will keep going through my life
Thinking all along how hard it is to be a wife

As the sky cries gentle tears that drown the echo of
the present. With the constant poise of a mother's hum.
Not the pure and the untouched sight. Not the taste of
a thirst quenched. Not the whisper sound of a melody,
or the embrace of a long forgotten friend. It is
something else of that nature that calls me back, that pulls
my uprooted body miles away in place and time.
The smell only, the tingle from your throat to your nose.
The scent before rain. A smell of still as if we all
take a deep breath before we all can submerge our heads.
The smell after, as if we all exhaled together.
That fresh, clean token that draws the worms from their tunnels.
They bask on the pavement in a warm summer evening
allowing that smell to enter their small earth bodies.
A smell of cobblestones, sea cliffs, and the crashing surf.
That smell takes me home. To the home I have never known.
Although I have never graced her lush coast, it never
ceases to remind me of my grandmothers wool coat.
The smell of my family, of funerals and weddings.
Always there behind the laughter, the drops of whiskey,
and pain of the storm. Followed by at least one rainbow.
Of music, of dancing in a dusty Irish pub.
The sight of green pastures behind my eyelids stretching
all the way to the horizon. That is what I smell.

In a world lined by lies, we look not to
hallow men but to; Crinkled white pages.

Engulfed by the smell of home and fluoresce.
Our heads swim with what can, could, and will be.
Those imaginary heroes become.

Us and we fight monsters made of concrete
text. And it ends every time we close the book.
But our hearts continue to beat with miscue

prose, to the tune of pink love-struck blushes.
Those fairy tales and happy endings bless
gifts to those scared of their reality.

When our hands touch paper spines we blossom
Our minds unfold and become meadowsweet;
Flowers of yellow and green on a brook.

Through little black lines we see life and death,
tame worlds of dragons with words with whispered words,
and grow beyond the boundaries of literature

inspiring us to wear our own armor.
The truth to the lie of fiction allows
it to become far more truer than truth.

There was a time my face glowed with pride.
I was sea foam on a rising tide.
I felt confidant in my shoes, I stood firm.
No one could topple me, nothing made me squirm.
But something, someone, somehow changed me.
Cut the cord of my balloon soul, and set me free.
Now I am floating alone in the breeze.
I can't choose where and I am going as the wind carries.
I am all but bare, my body open as a book.
One he reads every night but at it he can't look.
The pages torn, the binding ripping.
My heart, my body burning.
Upon a pyre of forgotten and pressing worries.
An infinity of sad, happy, scary, and depressing stories.
Who wants to be? When all there is, is grey.
No light at the end of the tunnel, no other way.
Told to look to the stars, but not to believe in the magic.
How can we when we live within a tragic.
Questions unanswered, lies like a plague.
Governments flawed, futures vague.
How can we go farther when we have not gone near.
Our paths are blocked not by the hooded figure of death, but of fear.