What summertime brings
lingers evidently on her
glowing golden skin -
she wears it proudly.
Accessorized with
her pearls for teeth and
hair the sun lightly bleached to
fall into sandy-blonde wisps that
dance like the waves
she runs next to.
Screaming freedom down
the beach she clasps her
sun-hat like a prize -
she stops to gaze at the
wonder of blue surrounding
her view,
just as it does each
summertime.

It's cut into pieces, but the shade welcomes me.
It sways back and forth -
begging to dance with me -
to the sound of a light breeze that is
probably in E which
is a little too high for me, but
I'll sing anyway.
A duet with the sun - I'm outshone but that's okay
because light is your specialty;
peace is mine.

We could dance for hours anyway;
I've got timing and you've got time and
we could probably busk in the streets if
we wanted to - but it's nicer here
and they wouldn't understand
the way we dance.
It's like a language that we
speak with the trees
as we bend our knees and extend our arms high -
surround them with sky,
to create a rhythm our minds
can't grasp.

This feeling is a release of
our souls - yours and mine
and it's not for sale;
it's for sanity
When I lay down here next to
my favourite tree,
listening to the wind, watching the
blue sky, I
find my *sanity.

Tiptoe.
       Very slow.
                Shoulders slumped.
                            Head low.
                                      An awful resemblance
                                                   to the surroundings;
                                      Tired, beaten, voiceless walls
                           doors slammed shut,
                A forced close
        To my emotions -
                       Supressed
                                Depressed.
            ­                              I'm stressed.
                                                  I'm tired -
                                                         I'm a mess.*
                                                          ­                                           Sorry.

It's okay that things are going wrong now. They'll be good again. And It's not that I'm not hurting, I just know that it won't last forever -
Even though each one feels significantly longer and I worry it will be the one that stays and eats away at my soul -
I've stopped lying to myself about the aches:
It's there.
I won't deny it.
But it has it's time, it's temporary.
Healing is a process, a journey.
I won't let this keep me down;
I choose to love myself.

Her words are like sharpened knives that slice me open, revealing the red raw of my flesh. They know where the deepest parts of pain lie - it's the first cut. The second rips away the small walls built to protect hidden secrets. They leave me vulnerable; open to hear more words that she screams as she drives another wedge into my heart. It's always screaming. The hate leaves her mouth almost as fast as it does her eyes - it's like a button she presses to reload the ammunition - newer, harder bullets shooting through me, leaving wounds in my chest, stomach, arms. An ever-ready finger pulling the trigger, shooting them out of black, lifeless eyes that don't really see me, don't acknowledge the hurt, but see what they want to see: another unguarded target.