The promise of her home and a
warm bed to rest my weary head
calls to me every time the world
becomes small and closes all four walls around me,
my breath stuttering in my lungs
around the bend
of my throat.
She beckons me softly to that
lovely cottage surrounded by tall woods,
the bird song soft in my cotton
as I walk the beaten
stone path to her dark door
with my heart bruised and sore.
A soft lantern glow welcomes me back,
and she accepts me with honey milk eyes
and a sugar sweet smile,
her arms the cradle and I the fussy babe.
The world melts away
and I float, boneless, in the expansive
nothing all-ness that settles over me like a warm blanket
in the dead of winter.
When I must bid adieu,
her sad bluebell eyes watch over me,
her hopes a flickering candle on a string
as the quiet fluttering of my healing heart
hums a happy tune
until I make my way back to her once more,
once again bruised and sore.
Was the blue colored sky
Replaced by the milky white dome
Designed to fit their polluted time
As young children lay their head to rest
A pasty pillow
A chalky night dress
And their ivory ceilings
Covered in painted charcoal stars
An artificial image forever stained on their hearts
Never will they look out at the clear pearl moon
Thinking of someone
Wondering if they're thinking of you
No snow coats the grass
In the cool winter months
No alabaster dandelions lacing the air
You can't find any white nature here
But in this moment it’s 2017
And i’m laying on the hunter green grass
Amongst the stars and the trees
And I wonder when history books will talk of this time
When the sky wasn’t painted white
Drowning in old sorrow
Yet ignoring the extended hands
Utterly selfish to dare expose vulnerability
A deep rooted want to become a-
part of the bleak sky
But, truthfully known the earth-
would be a final resting place
Why does one chose the walkway-
that caresses a personal netherworld?
Each portion of forced effort falls short
Especially in the eyes of the inner perfectionist
My closest friend is a crippling emotion
It sends consistent reminders-
in my dreams-
of my broken
Nightmares are a lingering-
background in my head
Why must detest my own blood?
For it is brimming with the corruption of loathing.
The engraved disappointment-
I grew to be-
Is even repulsed
by the soul within.
Plaster a grin
and keep it all in.