-‘Pit-a-patter’-

Raindrops fall on the window pane before it slowly plummets,
Falling into a large, brittle, glass-made bucket
The water level in the bucket rises slowly but inconsistently,
The bucket never overflows— instead it waits for the raindrops fervently  

Your texts are inconsistent and you are slow to reply,
Each word is collected inside my heart to see what you imply
Our conversations and memories slowly build up inside my heart,
My heart is never full— it longs for more of you to impart

-‘Whoosh’-

A strong gust of wind blows by and the rain stops,
Objects picked up by the wind hits against the bucket nonstop
Each hit leaves a mark on the bucket like a merciless, sharp dagger,
The pressure builds up—the brittle glass bucket eventually shatters

Uncertainties and problems start coming our way nonstop,
Carrying along our insecurities and worries- we no longer talk
You start to waver, telling me your feelings for me are dying,
Each word pierces through my fragile heart which falls apart— I start crying

The broken pieces of the glass bucket are scattered all over the street,
Even within each piece, scratches are all over it- although many but discreet
The damaged bucket is replete and can no longer collect the falling rain,
The water it collected previously is released and spills all over the floor like paint

My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces with each piece lost and forlorn,
Even within each piece, scars are all over it— inconspicuous but not gone
All our shared memories that I collected earnestly is tainted in a second,
“Just forget everything, leave it all behind” is what you beckoned

The broken pieces of my heart are impossible to mend,
Your smile, your words, your presence causes my heart to rend
No matter how much I try, the pieces do not fit together like it did before,
Are you the glue? Should I walk towards or away from you? I don’t what to do anymore
----
12am
1/12/21
——————
METAPHORS USED:

1. Raindrops —> Texts, Conversations
2. Water in the bucket —> Memories, shared experiences, dreams and hopes
3. Bucket —> Heart
4. Wind —> Uncertainties, problems, temptations
5. Objects carried along by the wind —> Insecurities, worries
6. Scratches —> Scars

The earth is twirling,
oh, God, make it stop.
If it keeps on spinning,
I think I’ll throw up.

The way Earth orbits the sun,
it's dangerous and thoughtless.
Can we just knock it off?
It's making me nauseous.

Her eyes were fiery
While her lips peeled away
Her sun was setting
But her colors never fade
When she bites she is bitter
But when she smiles she is sweet
Like a nectarine emblem
She’s the fruit of life’s tree.

The cool breeze side-to-side
With a smile and a hard glare
The child in me wants to take you back
It's hard trying to show you what's within
When I know I have nothing
But forward momentum left.

Somehow I feel deep inside,
That the hard rock-rolled beach
Is where we should call home
And it's selfish of me to say,
I want to see you walk into that
Glacier Water Lake again
A fluid contradiction

The moonlight falls onto my skin,
Silver and rippling
And I feel a semblance of peace.
I close my eyes
To let it all in
And let it all go.
My eyes glisten
With the reflection
Or tears perhaps.
I find I don’t care which.
Because peace is precious,
Peace and a certain kind of silence.
Not the lonely kind,
The suffocating kind.
Just the silence of calm.
I allow myself hope for a moment
That everything could be ok,
That I might be ok.

On the surface, bouncing, skimming stones
Where tails of Mermaids, splashed, in myriad tones
Beneath, where lay the drifting bones
Of the locker, of the fabled Davy Jones
Lured by the Sirens, succulently seductive, drones
Now lie beside, Poseidon's gilded, hallowed throne
by Jemia

Wooden spoon, traveling along
A marvelous companion and friend
With knicks and chips and weathered bits
From all the places we've been
Wooden spoon, hand carved with love
Yet longing to be with the forest once more
Thus it fell, from my net
To the waiting forest floor

The conversation lasted into the
long tooth hours of the night.
She read her textbooks and then heard a mouse with its tail barely caught in a glue trap. It squealed as if it were dying. In my heart I believed it was savable. In the agony I imagined him dreaming of fields and insects and seeds.
She had these cold gray eyes.
In one quick movement, she took off
one of her clodhoppers and smashed its brains out. She cleaned her shoe with a tissue, she said, I neither hate the mouse nor love it, it's just a thing.  At that moment I was pretty sure she was psychotic.
We're both drunk, I kept watching her *** in that tight  black dress.
She said in a very automated voice, I suppose you want to **** me now and then slithered out of the dress.
***** is *****
But I couldn't do it. I told her to put her clothes back on and not **** anything on the way out.