you ask me

Do I Feel Different Today?

today, day of days
when the child outside becomes the child within
when those seven billion billion billion atoms have more or less successfully completed nearly seventeen million kilometres of earth

spinning

in space around a ball of blazing plasma and all I want is a break from it all for just one second
breathe in
one
two
three
make a wish
blow out the candles
see each little light blink into oblivion until the only one left is the sun and

Do I Feel Different?

I am still
spinning.

In the beginning,
I wandered through a thick sunflower field.
Each passing day I grew closer and closer to the edge.
The way I started my descent,
I sat with my legs off the cliff,
Swinging them back and forth.
Next,
I inched down,
But was suddenly pushed because my heart broke.
Then coaxed by others hanging,
And well,
My curiosity led me on.

Now I have both hands on the cliff.
When I glance down,
My eyes widen.
I can't see anything,
It's pitch black with uncertainty,
A chilly breeze flows by.
Well that's a lie,
I can see a faint light,
But it's dim,
And a part of me wants to let go,
To fall,
Down,
Down,
Down.
My stomach does flips and tricks,
As I contemplate.
There's an excitement to it,
And curiosity again creeps up in my mind.
Accompanying the obscurity below,
The scent of tobacco and alcohol makes me scrunch up my nose.

I decide to gaze up,
I can hear laughter,
And light hearted banter.
The tantalizing smell of sugary candy,
Pleases me more.
The sky is pure baby blue,
No puffy cotton candy clouds,
And the sunshine warms the field.
Giant sunflowers sways back and forth,
Their golden color almost matching the brilliant sun.
Mindless daydreams appear,
And the notion of fairy tale love,
Causes my heart to swell,
I start to pull myself back up...

And I slip,
Beginning to fall backwards.
I scream.
Clawing at the side of the cliff,
My hands grab onto a small ledge and again I am hanging,
My legs dangling,
I'm a child on the monkey bars.
Wait no,
I am not a child.
But...
I don't feel like letting go just yet.
Why do I always try to traverse back up,
When every single time I’ve ended up farther down than before?
I don’t know.
Slowly,
I manage to rest myself on a small ledge.

Then as I’m speculating,
My eyes notice a small flower,
Growing on the vines that covered parts of the cliff,
Its petals surrounding itself.
Its color was white,
Clean like paper,
Resembling airy snow.
I reach out to touch it,
But retract my hand,
Hesitant.
It was the only other flower I had seen,
I was only familiar with the sunflowers,
But this one...
It wasn't blooming.
Again,
I extend my arm,
But I move the tiny flower away from what little sunlight reaches it,
And now complete darkness surrounds it,
As I hid it in a crevice.

I am not alone in this.
I know that much.
I can hear others shouting,
And falling.
Even if there is no sound,
I know there's always someone falling.
Some manage to climb up,
But never back onto the sunflower field.
They at least prolong their trip downwards,
Hugging the cliff even more.

Some don't even look before they disappear.
They step out of the field,
Then leap,
And dive right down,
As if they were young Icarus flying too close to the sun.
No matter what,
You always go down.

As I cling to the cliff,
The bright star above completes its journey for the day,
And is replaced with its ominous counterpart.
Sighing,
I stroke the closed petals of the white flower,
Knowing what usually comes next,
The night brings more to fall,
But as I tenderly pull the white flower from the crack,
The moon light greets it,
And soon it's petals begin to spread,
Blooming.
It reveals a dot of yellow,
Surrounding a circle of ghostly white.
A sense of comfort fills me,
Watching this long moment occur.
Darkness could transform things,
To become something beautiful.

My thoughts turn into questions as the night continues,
As I wonder what it'll be like when I fall.
What will it be like when I reach the bottom?
What is that light?
Will there be more white flowers?

But all in all,
This is not the end,
Far from it,
I know.
I'm waiting for my turn,
To finally let go and fall from grace.
But while I wait,
I’ll keep enjoying the sights above,
While pondering my coming life below.

I keep looking for an exit;
hoping and praying that all these confusions;
be straightened up and give me clarity.

I hate having to make up stories in my head;
that all the things you do for me;
you do for true love.

And all I ask;
is there an off switch for this?
because my heart's fed up;
with false hopes and broken promises.

This one, signed as myself and not my pen name, is a new step for me, I've never really put myself into my work, but this one is all me. Thus, it is called:
.

BARED SOUL

Life moves on
and things become too real.
A wife. Kids. Career.
It’s too much, I want to run away.

Everything has changed with
my position in the world.
I’ve never fit in
Always the freak who knows no limits,
the one who sits alone and minds his own.

Never understood, never accepted.
Now a husband, a dad, still the same.
Always covering up myself; hiding
behind wit and cruelty.

A shield to disappear into,
Afraid to be me; to send up alone.
I used to know who I was but
now I’m not so sure.

It seems I have my life sorted out,
but am I really happy?

A question I always find myself asking
but can never answer.
I don’t think anyone knows the meaning of happiness,
or if it really exists.

Tonight I found myself holding her close,
and as I rested my head on her chest,
I quietly try not to cry.

It’s hard sometimes to keep it all in,
to hold strong so as not to lose myself,
it’s why I write as I do.

An outlet through a pen is all I have,
only the page wont judge,
won’t declare me a freak,
won’t know that something is wrong with me.

The thoughts I have,
my inability to empathize with other’s pain and loss.
It makes me wonder if I’m right for this world.

I’ve been to two funerals,
one I barely knew, the other I held dear.
And lost a grandfather who meant everything,
yet I never shed a tear.

I used to think that it was because I am strong,
but now maybe that isn’t so.

Who am I really?
I think I need to know.

Marching through the shadows
seeking shelter; vengeance.
For ourselves; For those who have betrayed us.

Marching through the shadows
lost within the void.
Inside this swamp; Inside our souls.

Marching through the shadows
looking for the light.
Of freedom; Of Peace.

Frosted windows separate me
from the tiny fingers
pressed against the window pane.

Tendrils of smoke descending from above,
shrouding the fingers within
only visible in the glow of the flames.

What can I do but watch him die
as reality sets in, no time to play
with the person I used to be.

One by one they peel away,
leaving sweat marks on the glass,
until my inner child has gone up in flames.

Now I wake.

To find that though a dream, it was
formed from truth and reality,
the years of yesterday have taken it all away.

Trying to buy tickets to California, halfway the entrance
Black Rabbit Bone was waiting, he had to tell another story
just one more..luckily you'll get it before leaving.

Widely exposed were the shames of the boyhood
naively played were the words of our mouths
do you get it yet?

The songs change its meaning, some melodies taunted your thoughts
your favorite characters are on decay
and that seems to be ok

The shine of the lighthouse is dropping
You should cross soon
what will it be then?

Are you wearing a costume to the party?
Or will you get casual to the funeral?

Time is running, and you're the only one left.

I first felt her flow as Blue Lady tea steeped on a delicately crafted doily.

Cranberry Orange Scones paired with doll-sized cutlery.

I’d be excused.

A late bloomer,

steeping slowly from the flowering buds of my very own teapot.



Mothers, sisters, friends, daughters together

sharing a Blue winter in that tea shop.

When at fourteen, womanhood gifted

me the first of many

moments.

This would spark my wondering why women weren’t known

solely for their strength, rich in resilience,

like the blackest tea.



As Blue Lady steeped steadily from the table to the lady’s room.


Anna Blake

Small girl, my young girl;
Picturing an older copy.
A makeup wearing, boy crazed machine of intellect and grace.
A rare thought but a strong one.

Older but not old enough.
Missing bolts and screws;
Somehow still working.
I see something in a mirror that makes my organs plummet through the floor.
I'm not her.
Never have been;
Never will be.

Big girl, but not large enough.
Hair fallen out and swollen gums.
Bruised skin and flushed face.
Ripped soul but a full heart.

The mirror tells the same story,
But in a different font.
My once hollow skeleton is now filled with music and chipped paint.
I am the same damaged goods.
I am ripped skin and muffled coughs,
Cookie dough ice cream and kisses on the cheek.

I'd gotten so lost from my former-self that I didn't realize something now obvious:
I never stopped being her.
I will never stop being her.

I will never be young enough, old enough, happy enough, brave enough.
But I am me;
and I am more than enough.