When I start thinking,
I don't do much of it.
Mostly, it's just a process of falling and crawling and searching through the hidden levels of my consciousness.
I begin falling
            
                falling

                      falling.
I'm lost.
Lost like that stray kitten that wanders around the docks just waiting for someone to come and save it. Lost like the sound of the wind as it passes through the bare winter trees.
Save.
Save doesn't have to be physical.
It doesn't need to be physical or typical or some mystical miracle.
It can be as simple as an "I understand."
                      or a "You can talk to me."
You can cry with your head on my shoulder and when your words run out and you can no longer express yourself through creating any sound I will still listen to your silence.

Because I do understand and you can talk to me. And sometimes all someone needs is a hand to pull them up through all those secret levels and tell them;

I understand. Just take my hand.
I promise to be your rubber band and snap you back.
I will be the cord tethering you to the bridge as you dive off and start falling.
Falling.
Falling until the ground stops approaching and slows into a concrete existence.
Falling until that familiar tug of my compassion draws you back up.
I'm found.

They're like prison bars guarding the windows to your soul.
         The soul you don't think is deserving of freedom but
         I think is worthy of everyone to see and to meet and
         to love.
They're like white picket fences caging the wild horses of your personality.
         the horses you think to be too feral to be let loose but
         I think should be released so that people could know
         you like I wish I did.

the rain is calming
as it patters the rooftops and feeds the hungry perrenials;
and as the beads can no longer defy the pull of gravity fall,
                i fall
slowly peacefully gratefully asleep

i fly:
high
above the earth; the ball of dirt in which we exist our lamentable existences
deep
within the corners of my own mind
we think too much.
we think too little.
we don't think at all

about how it will be to no longer bear the burden of carrying this burden--
   these burdens--
conscience
responsibility

but we should--
reality is a scary place
                   flying becomes sinking
                   flying becomes drowning
                   flying fades to thinking
our days are numbered

the rain is calming
as it burdens us to think about life and learning

the rain is calming