A chilly thing comes over me,
Rolls in like a dense, white fog
As articulate and elusive as a spider's web,
A contraption to transition from one state
       to another
Of my creation.
My little mind fairies pull a blanket to
      my back
And pat it in place -
There, there,
This bleakness of mind is but a transitory season.
This, I know.

My eyelids drop in dejection,
The horizon seems to retreat out of sight -
It, too, needs a rest, is tired of failing
Against the pervasive cold -
It tries,
It fears failure,
And fails sometimes.

I begin to leak liquid from within,
It souses my clothes, filling my shoes,
My posture gives from the familiar weight,
It runs into cloud-shaped puddles
      in wanting likeness
      of their weightlessness
      and place in the sky.

This troublesome beauty
Lines the walls of my temple,
Dangles crystals and candlesticks along its mantles.
My thoughts pray at her altar,
They clench their fingers together in pure fascination, yearning
For a couple minutes more
Of that spiraling reality -
The sparks at the edge of my eyes draw
Me to peek behind the curtain of my essence.
I fall like powdered snow and gliding petals off
Their enchanted tower, having been
Plucked from the certainty of their being into
A tonic, gelid air.
My body contains a formless wonder
Made of mellowing spirit -
I unwind and differentiate
Into many limbs of being.

Struggling to bud, stretching,
The ache reminds me that my inspiration
Has seasons
And dies sometimes.

I eventually start to wonder if it will ever return.
Next I forget I ever had it
And then things appear to me -
Light spectrums stretch,
I notice the weather,
The blue filter removes,
And I'd like to capture it, somehow -
I turn my lens and let blur come to beckoning.
I'd like to record this enlivened state of beauty
Before I shift my gaze in ignorance
And thanklessness.

My words are the flowers and the bugs
I want to catch but leave alone
To not abash their fluidity.
I pet them with my pen
And suppose questions I might ask
If I could bother them for answers.

To open this box...
I'd more than like to know
What monsters it houses, what
Mossy, overgrown flora it grows.
Whether 'not it will
Blast me with fair, cleansing light, like
A sunrise through a painted window, or
Plunge me
Into dark waters
And run my eyes o'er with
Soaking ash and floating filament -

It's my weakness,
It calls me by a fond nickname, like
A too good friend after too long,
It knows me,
Knows I can't displace the
Imprints once they are etched
In my head

I have to uncover the rock the wrong way,
I have to
Lift it up towards me, brashly, impulsively,
And risk
The nervous snake
Right into my chest

That burning feeling,
Crackling in my breastbone,
Sets a flame and
Sends me back yet again
Scurrying into another lush, cool sanctuary
Somewhere in these woods, my temple,
In my center,
In my core.

I need to grow up but I don't know how
When my feet hurt I ask myself
Could that be? At this young age I have already begun to
        dilapidate?
Or is it just my brain weakening,
Panting, airless, reluctant -

I was not made to live this life, nor were you -

My mind says my legs were meant to
Traverse natural fields
And gape without scrutiny at the beauty
        of things around me
So my body tires walking on tiled hallways
Because it knows better than I
As to what this body was cut out to be -
But it's specifications don't fit
        any of these multitudes of molds
So I cram myself into angles and
        depressions unsuited
        because it's for the best
        it's for the betterment of society
        it's so I have a place on this earth -

But I already had a place, we all did,
Now our bent forms are unrecognizable to
Our Mother who wonders
"Why would my child pervert itself
        out of shape from its beautiful form?"

Through what common pair of eyes do we all see and
        at what point did we decide
        our own couldn't show us truth?

We are two flumes -
I dread that you will lose altitude with me,
But I can't tell you that.
I can't tell you
That your downward gaze makes my head hurt or
That your sodden tone reminds me
Of how plants must feel after it rains,
Unsure if their spines can lift up through
Layers of loosened topsoil and leaden water.
It's the uncertainty that gets me,
The splinter in the glass, the grey sliver in the sky,
The dread of a future burden that sometimes
Runs in your background or muddles your clear stream or
Shows its shadow even as your words try to astray me.

I like to believe
We are two unshakable blooms
Stretching in tandem and awakening
The same to each surely bright day as
To each overcast and crestfallen.

What have I done to you?
Tell me,
What connection do my conscious movements have to you to
Make your limbs itch to reflex
And smite me with?

        the bubbles that burst with
        my submersed words reveal my  
        vehement purpose;
        you ask me why and then drown me more -

I am not made for you, not
Made to make you content, my
Materials are not plethoric nor easily spent
I don't have the means to
Repeatedly sedate you when you
Knowingly defy the warnings and drain the poison
Again and over, and
Foam at the mouth with both love and anger for me