Immy

Poppy fields of red and black,
filling my vision with ladybug petals,
I feel a warm breeze on my back,
closing my eyes against the sun,
and shapes flutter on a black screen,
forming monsters that I can't outrun,

Pictures,
I take as many as I can,
trapping moments in 2d squares,
hoping that I can save the memories,
knowing that all I'll have is a fleeting snapshot in my mind,
and a picture,
of my friends,
of my family,

I'm frozen,
with my hand above a key,
I try to imagine a pen in my hand,
but it doesn't help,
so I write,
"I'm frozen,"
but then I stall,
no ideas in my head,
just an empty brain,
I put on music,

She is like a pigeon,
free and elegant,
soaring high above our heads,
unaware of the scorn she recieves,
from jealous humans,
wishing they could be like her,
calling her a pest,
knowing full and well,
she is beautiful.

People are books,
filled with stories to tell,
begging to be heard,
and when you open them,
the words come pouring out,
filling the blank spaces in the air,
filling your mind with the things they have to say,

I get on the bus,
for the first time,
it's dark,
but people have lights on,
holding them up to their newspapers,
their books,
I smile at the boy across the aisle,
and he smiles back,