Inkpaw

I lay in bed 
in the cold hours of the morning 
nobody's listening 
it's 3 am
they're all asleep
off in dreamland they be 
thinking of pleasant things 
while I just want to scream

(just a warning, if you have superstitions about breaking mirrors, or are sensitive to anything creepy, just, don't read this.)

she stares at the box
the boring brown, overly taped box, with her name on it

she sighs

feathers drift down from a dark gray sky 
one that promises a storm you can smell
a tempest you can taste

feathers drift down 
past the little white haired woman 

joy 
flies from my outstretched hand
and onto the previously pristine canvas.

anger pours from my mind 
as I smash my hammer in my old soda bottle 
making a satisfying crunch against the hard pavement.

 I step off the plane.
    

every suitcase
holds a different dimension
a different world to each person
every suitcase 
is a tiny version of home
in a barren, unfamiliar, unrealistically clean room 

every suitcase has a soul