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Small cool instrument
Be my best friend
Make me forget the pain
Make me feel alive again
Run across my bare skin
Leaving beautiful trails of red
Take me away from these fun house mirrors
Help me run away
Tell what I'm feeling
Share what I've got to say.
.
I tried to capture you
In the forests of Donegal,
Your bark of hair, red, so dark,
Was smear, camouflage, and window
Into a lost Fae world made as I was sinking
Without ever knowing, falling, without fear
Years later, you have long left and I still
Breathe in a wooden box of dream.
In Celtic folklore, the Irish: leannán sí "Barrow-Lover" (Scottish Gaelic: leannan sìth; Manx: lhiannan shee; [lʲan̴̪-an ˈʃiː]) is a beautiful woman of the Aos Sí (people of the barrow or the fairy folk) who takes a human lover. Lovers of the leannán sídhe are said to live brief, though highly inspired, lives. The name comes from the Gaelic words for a sweetheart, lover, or concubine and the term for a barrow or fairy-mound.

The leanan sídhe is generally depicted as a beautiful muse, who offers inspiration to an artist in exchange for their love and devotion; however, this frequently results in madness for the artist, as well as premature death.
Dash your art upon this stony logic and let bleed the colors. Gesso and treat the crevasses in this cliff mind and tighten your perspective.

Do not be afraid, these lines bend with your smile. Take it upon yourself to see what can’t be and make it so.

With bristled courage strike out against this ashen terrain and find your way home again. But stray not too long in the kettle warmth and poppy seeds, for even your willow locks long the sea again.

You throw salt in the eyes of those that seek you if only to season their sight. Hex and jinx in clandestine circles but do not forget that by a friends hand you learned these flairs.

Take to your faerie kind and seek the forest in yourself. Within the trees you are free.
You will not fit in my inbox,
If you love me, you’ll never try.
Never let a font decide the sincerity
of any good morning or goodnight.
Speak earthquakes to me slowly,
close as you can to my side.
Let me feel your lips
gently graze my earlobe
without an electrical circuit in sight.
Our love will not fit into 1s and 0s.
If you know me, I’ll never try.
Never let a hashtag envelop my sentiment
or pull the digital wool over my eyes.
I’ll lay grooves in your wax
you can play back later.
Our proximity too analog
for the technicolor sky.
His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.
My life is my story. I'd love if you continued reading by giving me a follow on Instagram/Twitter. (@evanponter)
 Apr 2014 Riley Key Cleary
Bella
Being happy is a choice
I can wallow in self pity for the rest of my life
Or I can wake up excited to be alive and to be breathing
I want to see beauty in cracks on the sidewalk
I want to be content, ecstatic, elated
Every ******* day
I am going to be happy
I will not be held back
I will breathe in sunshine and exhale rain clouds
Happiness is far more beautiful than this sadness
I will not feel sorry for my past
I am obligated to make the best of it
I will be happy
Because happiness is a choice

— The End —