I dream of flying high,

My wings are so small.

Rain flashes like a glass bottle

Smashing to pieces.

Clouds are so close,

Just out of reach.

My fingers stretch down to

The waters' clouds instead.


Finished fighting,

I'm bolted to the ground.

Everything has to be by the book. I hate that book.

One
By
One
We are a unit
We are given
The freedom
To speak of something better
To live by different mottos
To believe in stories of the past

Often, we must  
Live by this book of rules
A helpful,
Organized book
I despise it
In this book
We are only given
The illusion
That we own ourselves.

As I air out sheets on a summer day,
flowery linens play chase in the breeze.
The weather picks up like a roar from a lion taking stage,
it echoes in the heads of my audience and attempts to pry them from my clothes pin fingers.
All my reds,
yellows, and
browns are blown and battered by fierce winds. 
Inside, a flower is unfurling.
It is deafening.
It is that calm.
I want to be wrapped in a cocoon of fleece blankets.
But the wind is relentless and smells of cold,
of lying in the snow,
of watching flakes drift slowly to the ground,
it smells of winter.

I remember the day I met her
Near the breaths of the ocean
Before she chose mind-altering pleasures
Over everybody’s well-being
Only the tips of the clouds were bathed in light
The sounds of a typical barbeque
Echoed across the water
She smiled, I remember how that was, a gentle smile,
The kind you get when you lie in giraffe high grass
Within the meadow flowers
As the sun’s rays gently caress your face

The last time I saw her smile
It had twisted into a horrible grin,
The kind you get before you sing
“I know something you don’t know…”
She was smiling at something I couldn't see
Can never see
The effects of speed, ecstasy, crack, and *******
Her kids were taken away
My parents almost got custody,
But by then, she was “cured”.

Tell me the windows aren’t really sweating.
Under the hostile glare of the sun,
With the soft breaths of the moon
In the castle perched on top of the gnarly oak tree
At the end of the block
Where children play dress-up and make believe
In borrowed old dresses,
The best stolen Sunday clothes and missing wool socks

Tell me the hunters in helicopters aren’t really chasing jokes across the flats.
What am I falling into?
A darker, dreamier state of mind?
No matter how hard you try to mask it or explain it
With books filled with fairy tales or complicated equations

Tell me what your saying isn’t really true.
I’m not going to believe you anyway