come walk with me
My toes step on cold
unevenly laid on the frigid dirt path
sprouting out from the cracks
skinny green vines attack for attention
their presence chills my bones
and your toes touch the center of every third square
that focus you have
not too far, just move your head slightly around the path.
you see the beautiful earth laid with a blanket of wicked greens
There is a border on your left and on your right;
Two cold lines that keep you from nature’s strife
One more step on to the in between
sinking each toe into the wet bristles but the heels grounded in cement
hands reach for the soft dirt
your knee strikes a patch of moss
slowly we sink to the intricate ground
brush your fingers and hands into the easy ripped hair
Close your eyes
and really feel the heartbeat of the wind
but only for a second
press your head into the roots
smell the fumes the tree produces for hours
while growing an inch in front of you
It waves its glorious branches in ones face
taunting and teasing your blood flow to race
a little more
in the distance your gaze reaches an angry stone wall
Now how can stones be angry?
carelessness can be a virtue-
Quickly they built the wall, throwing the bricks
cussing the storm that hired them all-
one brick lands on a finger and the ladder falls and hugs the grass
there is the end to the wall
the uneven layers of cement form a crown around it all
with no gate
and no time
the ladder is far behind
Come walk with me dear solider
Before the stars start to fall. Continue reading “Rem Garden”
Stare into the corner of your room
And actually look
You can’t see it can you?
All the dust and disgust that’s growing as I type
It’s just sitting there like your ego-
In front of your reality
That dust starts to float to the counters and the edges of your picture frames.
Creeping through the air- and only seen when the light pushes through the windows.
It surrounds you day by day you breathe it in and out
Until one day you see a dusty figure sitting in the room right next to you.
You move closer to see if it’s real -come to find they smell so familiar you begin to feel comfortable around them.
The figure copies your every move and listening to everything you say, becoming your shadow and growing with time.
And then you turn around, and see a monster.
He stomps around claiming his territory and you are thrown into the corner. Reality check.
Not so clean, is it?
The thing I hate most
An unavoidable tragedy for a gallivanter like me
Forcing myself to enter the fear filled building
And choosing to stand in long lines where employees strip me of my dignity- Just to prove I’m harmless.
Everyone marches onto the infested drones
Just to find seats and bathrooms- filthy from the round of troopers before
Side by side we sweat together
Packed in tightly till we can breathe no more.
As we begin our journey through the air
A mixture of excitement and vomit all in one place
Such a waste of money for something I despise
Dizzy spells reoccurring every two minutes
Coordinated screams from little beings coming one after another
You feel your dinner sitting at the end of your throat
But the raging pain inside your brain pushes the chicken back down.
Dear me, I hate to rant
But do we really have to fly once more?
I love to float
Grasping that moment where your apart of everyone’s conversation;
but your own.
Paying attention to everyone but yourself
And knowing that everyone secretly thanks you for the attention.
The reason why I do it over and over-
Solely bases off of this point.
As soon as you see another acquainting soul
Your mind is filled with necessary information ready to be poured out onto them.
You rapidly disengage all your shy attributes
Especially when there is all this commotion around.
And spill pieces of information that will only make sense to you.
Don’t get me wrong- if there was judgement this would be a different story.
I just throw my shades on, smile, and float.
Just remember…If everyone thinks that they themselves are the most special, who then is thinking of anyone else?
Why are you here?
Walk into the Victorian decorated building.
Eyes puffy, blood thin,
Spent the morning slowly driving
Into the lot that’s already full.
Shades on, chin up,
Walk the walk but don’t open your mouth.
Last row filled with twenty of you who slip their shades into their pocket and stare at the floor disowning their Lord.
The truth crawled into her skin.
Struck a nerve that
Made her realize.
I saw it,
Her loss of innocence.
A subtle difference,
A look that gives you chills.
The ones that run down your back & arms.
Slither through the bone
That tingles when the weather gets cold.
The moment freezes,
I am always haunted with her innocent life,
Presently only a memory.
Dear mother of mine,
where is the connection?
All the time,
you spent on my line?
All the memories of care lost
The time you cost,
to capture my attention.
The watching, the waiting,
the stopping, and hating.
Dear me, dear my,
dear mother of mine.
Seeking the love,
of the first glance you gave.
Watching your glove,
the potatoes you shave.
Go back and run around.
Hear the screen door slam-
shut! As my tiny feet ran
by the love that swung me around.
Dear me, dear my,
dear mother of mine.
Remember your child,
remember the time.
Sitting down on a high chair facing the window, the middle aged sturdy woman sat down with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. Taking off her coat and relaxed in the chair she opened the book to read. it was a plain winter day with barely any snow right around the holidays. Nothing was special but it caught my attention when her phone rang. She was speaking to what is sounded like was an editor and she was concerned about a title in her website. Looking at the book I tried to piece everything together. Sitting at a cafe was a writer who just for perfection decided to read her own, already edited book. She didn’t trust the man on the phone, skeptical of the surroundings and just trying to push through to people and proving to them that this was what she wanted to tell the world and no one could stop her. Ending the conversation her sights were no longer on the book but looking out the window and towards her phone as if the wait and anticipation will help her vigorous perfect life piece together one by one.
Tons of Ribbons, Ropes, and String.
Flying around you,
wrapping around your fingers and thighs
swirling up and down your brain.
But none of them can tie you down.
Running towards an impenetrable bliss of freedom.
The ribbons surround you-
and you- yourself build a cage.
There is no more rebellious spirit,
just a little girl dying on the floor.
Unexpected ribbons defying matter,
pushing the bars of gravity.
Each string graciously weaving inside-
the body of her deteriorating memories.
Flowing ethereally through the past.