The grey clouds shift and swirl above my head,
slowly, almost imperceptibly getting darker;
as if anger has forced a flush of colour to their cheeks.
I crane my neck, searching for the transformation
of anger to grief; for the tears to pour out,
to rain down on those of us below that don't mind
being a shoulder to lean on.

(C) 23/6/14
Courtney L

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.

As I gazed into the dense inner-soul
of that broad birch tree I
so often sought,
I discovered nature's ever-changing influence:
orange, soft leaves had began to
stem from farther branches, yet turning still
to a softer yellow -
almost in attempt to compete in colour against
the richness of the sun.
I breathed in the sweet scent of autumn,
longing for the cooler nights and crisp mornings when
the workings of winter begin to
leave subtle clues.
A wispy wind streamed through the leaves
as if in a hurry to bring the message
to far away trees alike:
Autumn is here.
Strolling barefoot through the thick grass
my mind wandered past
the rainbow assortment of roses that lay
further ahead and seemed to settle, at last,
in the folds of a tall oak tree -
surrendered almost completely to
the fiery hues, it reflected
a glowing fireplace; the leaves danced and
branches crooned melodies to oneanother
amidst the heat of the flames.
And at last I yielded to it;
finding a tranquillity I needn't question
as I decided: autumn is the best season indeed.

(C) 20/4/15
Courtney L

You're always being surprised by people;
Maybe if you didn't have fixed opinions
and twisted pictures of them mentally
their actions wouldn't always confuse you.
We're not one-dimensional and it's about time
you reconstructed your perception
of people with the addition of new facets -
See people aren't always your first thought;
so give me a chance: realise my ability to
empathise, remind and recognize
both our weaknesses.
If you'd shatter this reflection and only see
the complex connections of the soul
perhaps my imperfections would be
forgotten in forgiving eyes.
Though if I always aimed lower,
I'd either pleasantly surprise you
or not disappoint you, so go ahead,
think badly of me - at least I can always
meet these expectations.

(C) 27/11/15
Courtney L

It's like as soon as I'm alone the walls fall down.
The insecurity returns, back to it's usual places: a nook in the cavities of my heart, a hole in the veins that should be bringing me blood. I can't hide it, it's like the pain of a memory that never really heals with time, never fixes itself. Instead thin layers of 'I'm Okay' wrap around the wound as if sticky tape trying to glue together cracks in the road earthquakes have parted. It's just another one of those nights where every hurt from every sound spoken hits me all at once and cuts like the original impact.

I'm numb.
                         I succumb.
                   I become
                                      None.
          Not who I was -
                       Not a variation.
        I forfeit
                I distort
                           Perceptions,
                                       Recollections.
            I weave
   I believe
               I tried.
                                Endless;
                        I'll end this.
             Extend this -
Pretend for this,
                       I'll choose.
                  For who?
                            - Not who I was,
     Nor possibilities.
                        But facilities:
       Could they fix I?
                                         Would they dare try?
  Under a dark sky
                    I'll wonder why:
            It's daylight outside
                         but I'm surrounded by
  deep waves of  
                               endless
                                                   night.

I look to the sky, endless blue overtaking my vision in hues so bold I have to close my eyes once again, return to the darkness.
I dream I'm lying in the grass, looking up, not overwhelmed at the blueness this time, but enjoying it. Maybe someone is with me. Maybe they too are transfixed at the enormity of space.
I stare for a long time, thinking of how I could paint it. Struggling to capture what beauty it holds. Maybe I'll paint the stars too; little bursts of light intruding on the deep swirls of night sky.

These devils lie awake while you sleep;
surfacing the seas of your mind.
They taunt you as you dream,
daring you to see past the nightmares
so vividly painted out before you.
As safe as you ever felt they were always lingering,
just around a corner that wasn't there;
so close the wind you thought carried you
was the fire from their breath
seeping through your lungs
and flooding your veins.
In your prison you pictured bold colours blending
together and creating worlds of their own
in the smudged corners of contrast.
A bright world, where happiness grows
on trees and devils lurk in your dreams.
All this you kept with you, locked away
in some part of your heart that couldn't
be enlightened with the truth;
you are tormented by these demons that
relentlessly surround your cage.
It's too late for your mind, you've been
deceived, your heart taken captive.
Watch as you restlessly lay wake,
envisioning your decay.

You don't need to run
His voice echoes in my mind -
filling my thoughts for a moment as
I remember exhaling all my air when near him I could
finally breathe again.
I recall the immense satisfaction I felt as I knew
He was the one person I could
completely lose myself with.
And if I do...?* I think, pondering
a future my darkest thoughts plead for;
set in seeking destruction they
wrestle with my heart's nerves -
Breaking, bending, snapping the life-lines
I've confined to a minimal.
I'll be ready, I'll catch you
He says, knowing my default setting
of self-sabotage. Seeing past all my attempts
to let my guilt consume me he
refuses to accept I'm too far gone.
I won't surrender this fight, not
before you do. He leaks into my
hungry soul, satisfying a thirst
I never knew burned inside me.

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.

This little squirrel Quill
                      He lived over the highest hill -
                                 He pined all day with nuts to collect
                      To protect for long winters.
Quill climbed the tallest
                       trees and still he
                               hid from large eagles till
                       He knew he could safely return home
                                 burrowed in his log.
Mr. Squirrel Senior Quill warned
                       "Don't be long, it's nearly dawn!"
                                  But little Quill amused himself
                         and ate acorns to meet his fill.
He didn't worry or scurry home -
                         He took his time,
                                   He sang a rhyme
                         He made a friend: 'Jerome' the gnome,
                                   He sang and sought a new way home.
Mrs. Squirrel Quill, she drilled and drilled:
                         "Where were you? what happened?!"
                                    Her mother's voice shrill.
                          "I, uh, I was ill!" said Quill, "terrible case
                                    of Squirrel's fill!"
Hiding the nuts, he smiled wide;
                           He was happy, little Quill -
                                    Free and filled.

(C) 6/1/15
Courtney L

Let's pretend -
Let's pretend that everything is okay as we
stitch ourselves up yet again;
smiling as we do it to fool our hearts into thinking
everything is okay -
for now,
Let's pretend it is.

A lone bird beats its wings
silently through the rain.
Flying south-west for the winter
as it has no companions to indicate exactly
which way south is.
Somehow born without such instincts
it struggles against the current of wind
continuously reinforcing a mindset
of complete endurance.
So it will trek the stormy skies
for many winters to come -
bound by an endless cycle of
lost-but-just-certain in knowing
it simply has to keep going.

Sit still,

          amidst the quiet.


Let expanses of space
                                            and time
                                                                           pass your eye.
Connect

   the dots and

           trace carefully the


stars
                     that reflect
and refract

                                     your hopes.

                                            Bright lights,

wearisome nights,
                       a book or two.


Deep
   thoughts,
                              weather-beaten
                                                   panes

mirroring

   intertwined ways.


                          Divided by social

                                                  rejections and

personal

               imperfections.


         Wasting time
                                       buying
                                                           carelessness
                                                                                          to spare.
                                               An
                        excessive
    supply of
                        
                         confused
                                              but attempted
                      
                                 sorted thoughts.

Brought on,

                 begot
                        by none but
                                                      the heavens
                                                        
                                                          and

                                                                       unknown
                                                                          witnesses.


                                                                                                    A wispy haze
                                                                of broken
                                   hours and

                                                      long-gone
                                                                  days.

Purity
of mind
captured in
moments seen
and observed closely;
She's not just avoiding her
skin - she conscientiously won't
let them - in she knows a gem when
she sees one and refuses to be another grain
on the beach, but a sea of beauty further beyond.
She'll draw them in with her smile and her
defiance against being another skinny
leggy, blonde thing or a doll that's
life is pretending to be of worth.
She knows how to put on
a show of originality and
she's purer and more
beautiful than
the clearest
waters on
earth.

(C) 20/6/15

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.

He captures my heart in quick, quiescent moments;
in seemingly soulless surroundings
my eyes are open -  as spoken is a promise of hope.
He steals seconds of concentration
for openly encountered
restoration.
He's jealous, he seeks my attention,
and, when I'm
thorough but thoughtless
he invades, like a lover
desperate for connection.

(C) 1/10/15
Courtney L

Something inside me
Instantly falls apart and
An ache is all that's left when
The sharp edges of each fragment
Lie scattered, puncturing
Near organs in their
Beautiful array of
Brokenness

I didn't consider it a disorder;
the seasons seem to affect most,
and what I thought, perhaps,
kept me down wasn't the
absence of the sun, see -
I thought the waves lapped in
my mind to drown me.
I succumbed to the consistency
of submerging tides that felt
physically deeper in the shallows.
I suppose I didn't understand
the darkening effect of night, see -
it doesn't wrap the earth in
deep shades of violet, it encases
my head in deep scarlet emotions
and they paralyse me.

(C) 6/4/15
Courtney L

I'm reliving the times thoughts
clouded my mind,
in swirling storms of doubt:
But now I see, deconstructed at least,
the strings I've snapped and broken.
Once choking and heaving I've
become to bleeding
out the darkness inside of me.
Looking to you, staying true to
your words and heart so dear;
Emerging whole I've shed the
mould of a mind oppressed by fear,
And I see so clearly your light
burns within me, a triumph
awaited my tears.

(C) 17/9/15
Courtney L

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.

The sky is still and blue as waves of puffy white cloud
follow it down with the descending sun.
Darker blue lingers at the edges enthusiastically, waiting
to drown the paler hues in deeper oceans that blacken each
passing hour. It's like a scripted play where the sun
and its cloud accomplices are forced to surrender
and night rises triumphantly to centre stage -
although not quite receiving an applause.
Unsure, the audience shift uncomfortably in their chairs
as they are left to ponder a dark villain having the victory.
The light is soon drained from it's stocked recesses as
little tea-candle lights reflect against the navy seas,
shimmering like sparkly dancers filling the between scenes.
With bright smiles and sequined tight dresses
they're keen to make it big. They are yet outshone by
the curved crescent edges ascending; prompting
whispers of secrets to the far away planets that the moon
is now here. Almost in reverence the surrounding spaces
begin to glow - stealing the show the absence of colour
coolly shines alone - separated from the stars it
takes its bow on stage, gleaming like freshly watered flowers
it thrives on the delighted gazes of the many below.

She's lying down on an old bench in the corner of the yard.
One arm nursing her head, the other fending off the rays of sunlight sliced by the leaves of the tree above.
Her eyes wander, to the old wood of the bench beneath her, frail and rough, somehow supporting her weight. She rests a book beneath her head to add comfort to the skinny planks that hardly do for a pillow.
She rolls over, adjusting the book she began reading but lost concentration on; the cool blue sky above seeming to be far more interesting, next to patches of shadowy-green interlaced with bright sun. Contrasting colours surrounded by a cloudless background, moved by an occasional breeze that rattles the leaves and compels the sky to sing.  
She closes her eyes, reflections of orange-red appearing inside her eyelids; their width barely blocking the summer sunlight, instead allowing it's rays to reach through, singing and dancing and living harmoniously beside her, wrapped around her, easing her into it's peaceful, free lifestyle.
She soon falls asleep, content, protected.

The rose lies, carefully placed next to his name.
His eldest son has just turned five and doesn't know he's buried there,
among many other faceless graves.
The soft glow of a candle, lit over his last letter.
She holds it close, his warmth she craves.
His last words, only written to ease the suffering
merely prolong the pain:
"I'll love you, always."
Twenty-one when he left,
cold and breathless when he returned;
wearing an expression pleading to be spared from the
tragedies already occurred.
Sleeping restlessly in a coffin, he died in combat -
a knife to the waist, legs severely burned.
So as not to wake the children she sits and attempts to calm herself; grabbing a pen and paper to write one last letter back to him:
"They taught you ******* and not care, how to
mercilessly end what you couldn't possibly understand.
You learnt to block out the dying screams as you also
silenced your own fears. You thought you were freely giving
part of yourself, while they crept in,
silently like a cancer; they took
everything from you my dear."