Bike away

Bike today

Goodbye

I'm not sure how to explain this.
When I was younger,
I thought that when you died,
You were reincarnated
Into things that were part of nature.
But not organisms.
Wind, bodies of water, and rocks.

And the special souls were saved for storms.
The powerful and the passionate.
Hurricanes and snowstorms.
Sometimes colliding.
And I could always tell if they were fighting
Because of hatred and anger,
Or reconnecting with love and longing.
Or if it was a little of both.

I know that I am magnificent, powerful,and special
But I would love to just be waves
Constantly returning to the coast of Maine.
You and I crashing over each other
Constantly become one.
Stretching out to touch civilization,
And pulling back to our own world.
Filled with fish and boats,
And maybe someone will give us a message in a bottle to deliver.

Depression is a disease like any other
It can be less complex than a flu or it can be as fatal as cancer.
Although there is a broad spectrum to the severity of depression, I lost my mother to this deadly disease
Depression is not a feeling of the person you love not loving you back, it's not listening to heartbreak songs in your room alone and it's hardly anything to romanticize. Depression is corrupting, it takes away the life of a person, slowly or quickly with a snap of your fingers. Although death of a family member is life altering in any circumstance when you loose someone from depression you feel cheated, as it was an unforeseen death and you had no thought of saying good byes or simply being able to tell them that you loved them just one last time.

people only see youth
in the eyes of a child
and not in the soft hands
of a 70 year old woman
who still believes in magic.

To love a man that gives you the moon and all of the constellations,
                      this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could create skies of jade and violet among any area of his choosing with his own bare hands.

To love a man that gives you a bouquet of twelve burgundy roses,
                     this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could produce a field of golden pansies atop my right cheek with his own fingertips.

To love a man that gives you a kiss beneath a lantern string of lights,
                     this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could shoot the most colorful of fireworks and streamers from the booming sound of his own voice.

To love a man that gives you a floral path from the door to a candle-lit room,
            this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could toss a book through the air and before it struck my skin, it would burst into pink rose petals with a clap from
the same bare hands that painted me jade and violet skies.

Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.

My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not  checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.

Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.

Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble

Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

Trying to mend the cracks with this battered *****. Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!

You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.

Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
Crush.
crack.
Crunch.
Reassemble