I still have the occasional dream,
Of things I can no longer do,
People I can no longer see.
I've cut them off from my thoughts so they have no where else to go but my subconscious. Subdued, taped up and packed in boxes and old drawers, the pieces purposely misplaced and pictures burnt and/or torn, but they're still there. My little hell that still burns behind my eyes, that takes residence in my skull, that I try my best to forget about. I try to distract myself, avert attention, but honestly things still thrive in there. Alive and well, my hell has full attendance

I wish I could tell you
Every little thing
I think in my head
But I can't because
They move too fast,
Are too slippery to grasp
And hold onto long enough
To write into lyrical thoughts
Worthy of your time.

Little hands with tiny fingers
reach out like they can see,
over the top off coffee tables
and behind her daddy’s knee.

Little hands with tiny fingers
seem to always find a mystery.
They can slip almost anywhere
little hands should never be.

always grasping always searching
always reaching always learning

Little hands with tiny fingers
touch my heart and set me free.
When the little girl they belong to,
gives her little hands to me.

Sometimes I wonder
If I saw you again,
Would you recognize me?
Would you look and see the stars in my eyes
And still love me?
Make a wish on me
When you've seen a bolide?
I remember your blonde hair
And your childlike love.
Well,
I guess we were only children,
And then I was gone so far.
How often do you look back and see
My beaming face and
Trusting heart
Slip from view in the back of a car?

Fate has brought the broken
Friendship back together,
But do you look to see who I am,
Or do you see who I was?
I'm no longer little,
But I don't know what to expect.
I guess I'll let fate decide
What happens from here.

The wind rustled the leaves
The smell of plants filled the air
The snow on the ground
Turning into mud puddles
Children Jumping
In their new pink ducky boots
The smiles on their lips
The laughter shared from parents
Everyone was happy
Joy was everywhere
But there was a girl
Sitting on the sides
Watching as it all
Just passed her by
No one saw the girl
Was she even there
Until a boy
Walked over and shared
He looked at her
In her yellow worn boots
Her scratchy old jacket
And tangled hair
He took off his jacket
And then his boots
And became an outcast
Just like her
She had a friend now
At six years old
Someone noticed her
Maybe a spring day
Could wash away the pain

It seems that these days nothing is real
The world around me shimmers artificially
Women will have procedures done to fit into the world of plastic
Men find it more simple to use cheep tricks to get a night of love
People on the street dress to make the illusion of perfection
Little girls stuff their bra's and paint on geisha faces pretending to be grown up
The sad truth is that,
Nobody is genuine anymore