Spider

Walking into a corridor of neatly aligned cobwebs,
that have your history strewn across, like telephone wires
intertwining and intersecting,
Making all the conversations and voices interweave,
crossing paths - causing a disruption in the line,
the static disturbances echoing through the dark corridor
embellished with these cobwebs that have been lost in your mind.

The cobwebs speak like conversations
from broken telephone poles
that are overlapping and confusing the mind,  
muddled and disarrayed, lacking any sense.
time has consumed these thoughts,
leaving bits and pieces,
that only mislead you


You swing across paving new paths with silken threads,
crisp and new, like adhesive,
glistening with prosperity.
Yet you keep these deep rooted cobwebbed memories
locked in your mind,
like Pandora’s box ready to unravel.
So just let them retire,
they have fallen and become undone,
and now they just collect
dust from your memories
Reminding you of thoughts,
that are specked and flecked
with dusty recollections.

Those worn out thoughts can no longer collect,
they only eject,
tangled stories confusing you
and bemusing you
So don’t collect
your abandoned webs,
like a memory book - they are no longer relevant,
they were just webs you wove to learn
how to weave the web you now conceive,
strong and secure,
fully capable to endure.

Frayed and grayed
Oversized and overused
Why you still hold onto it,
has everyone bemused.

Freckled and speckled
Like a cinnamon stick
warm winter stories
Keeping it thick

Pale fingernails, peak through the sleeves,
Tears and holes decorate the wrists.
From between cupped hands
Rise cinnamon flavored mists

Warm memories ride down your throat
Thawed hearts melt with every sip
Cinnamon specked bubbling froth
Settles above your lip

Cinnamon flavored laughs
Punctuate the conversations
Spicy aroma tickles the nose
Sniffing for winter’s indications

Warm memories on cold nights
Fill up the empty holes in your sleeves
Packed with stories soaked in cinnamon
And the sweater becomes fuller with the memories it weaves

The warmth of the sun settles, hugging the lake.
The dragonfly flies low, hovering above the tranquil water
the light seeping through the paper thin skin,
it hums across the lake, refracting light off its wings,
An array of colors make patterns on the wings,
wearing it like a cloak, a rainbow embedded within.
The colors tilt and shift as the dragonfly gracefully cruises through life,
laying close to the water but letting the air propel it forward,
floating between two different worlds,
it is like a dream where our thoughts are separated from reality,
and are scattered like refracted light for us to assemble.  

Through a screen of our dreams, a world can be seen.
A world of hopes and desires that is dormant within
The light of life just soaks us bare,
our skin turns frail,
under the scorching glare,
the glare of eyes that want you to be,
someone that is accepted by society.


the dragonfly bathes itself in the sun,
the iridescent colors shine on its skin,
flying and floating, he’s determined to win
a predator, determined to get what it wants
nothing blocking its way or paving its path
making the most out of life and never holding back

spread your wings like the dragonfly
that hums its way through life,
dipping its wings in the sun to shine,
breaking free a life of colors,
that we leave locked and forgotten,
behind a reality made of black and white,
the black ink seeping through our minds,
injecting us with ideas of the 'ideal life'
where money and fortune, and status define.
Bathe your mind in the wonders of the world,
soak your heart in life's warmth and glow,
and pave your own path,
with the dreams you sow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-o3Jsn4iLzo

visit my blog for the words :)
http://www.mariamparacha.blogspot.com

Breathe in the freshness
of the arduously picked commodity,
That you hold between your lacquered fingers.
Don’t let synthetic ingredients
dissolve your thoughts
and obscure your vision.

The liquid remedy we sip  is drenched,
With pain and protracted nurturing
Carefully fostered
through inclement weather
drink in the story that comes with it
That fuels caffeinated conversations.
Refined and defined leaving us blind
to the painted secrets of lives that were once lead
different lives intersect,
different thoughts and opinions interject.

Leaving lipstick kisses on the porcelain skin
Sipping away worries and pain.
Inhaling the smell of impelling advice,
fragments of sugar coated anecdotes melt,
integrating within, interfering
with the raw, strong, sharp taste
that can pierce through.

the rare intense, earthy aftertaste
is tainted with artificial garnishing,
suffocating the fresh natural essence
neatly contained in the teacup
ready to serve and ready to present
taking shape of the porcelain guise

Don’t sprinkle it with processed collaborations
of sugared doubt,
Contaminating your imagination
Manipulated by dainty voices
Resonating in your head
Like the delicate teacup
You anchor with your soft hands
Weighed down by the overly sweetened tea.
No longer holding significance
of the vast fresh fields it sprouted from
Forgotten and drowned
in the voices of someone else’s drum beat.
cloudy vision reflected in the saturated tonic
you sip elegantly, pasting a smile
suppressing your own desires,
under someone else's acceptance.

It is a bright new morning
You settle your feet on the cold marble
Freshly refurbished,
A mirror to the light
An inverted world reflecting in your eyes.

The chill from the polished floor
Infusing through your bones
Reverting you back to yesterday
Remembering it,
As a carpeted foundation
That tickles your skin,
With flocculent strokes
At an instant,
You pull back your feet
And latch onto the memory
Of yesterday

This moment,
Now,
Is a clean gleaming slate
An unmarked palette for today
For you,
To scratch the surface and stride across
Carve new tales,
To make another,
yesterday

My chin rests on the dent of my palm,
I am hopefully staring into space
where the blur of the white wall that is before me
becomes an empty palette for me to draw on
to paint a map of the future,
of the roads and paths and routes
untidily scribbled on the
blank canvas plotting my dreams
with sketchy untidy thoughts with blurred out edges
of a vision full of innocence and lack of experience
but making the raw marks easily amendable
leaving room for mature modifications
as my dreams ripen
I am dreaming of days that will come,
Dreaming of ways that will let me become
But our dreams are like clouds,
They are made in the air
They keep floating with time
Further from us
To distant places where they will be lost
And we will be left staring at an empty sky
Not knowing in which direction to go.
If we sit idle,
Lying in the grass, staring away
expecting the cloud to descend one day
We are mistaken
because dreams are meant to live in the skies
high up above which is why we strive
and achieve for higher ground
because if they were as prevalent as the flowers
on the verdant grass
anyone could pluck it without any stress
but like clouds our dreams travel with time
mature with wisdom and age
the further they blow away
They become faint distant memories
so don’t just sit and stare
and always be aware
gather pieces from your life, and create a platform
pieces of experience
that will stack up to create
a stairway bringing you closer    
to help you attain your cloud shaped dream
and when you are near, hold it close,
nurture it and help it grow
and never let it go