i am a child of the pine trees
and ocean waves off the coast of Maine 
the dust stirred up on dirt roads 
and the wooden boards beneath my bare feet 
i am a child of blood and bone 
and fireflies on summer nights
a child of cloud chasing
and pondering wrongs and rights
i am a child of the open sky 
my cradle is the moon 
under the thousands of tiny nightlights 
and the words maybe and soon
no clear definition 
no want or need for more
i live among the pine wood fae 
and frolic across the cold sea shore 
snails and shells in my bucket 
maple leaves stuck to my clothes 
the wind constantly nipping at the very tip of my smallish pinkish nose
i am a child of mountains tall 
and a state known for it's green
i am a child of a snowy spring
and the low hanging branches of weeping willow trees
i am a child of the wind and the waves
the scent of food homemade 

words are hard
i try to make them right
the ones that make sense
the ones that sound pretty
and fall off my tounge with a smile
but
how i feel
doesn't turn into words
its not smooth or clear like the shattered glass 
of the window i taped back together with my imagination
and pretended wasn't scattered across my green carpet 
green like your eyes on a grey cloud day 
how i feel 
is rugged and spiky 
like the cactus on the windowsill
dirt mixed with glass bits
destruction i don't recall
only the cuts on my fist remember 
the feeling that was felt
as they broke through the delicate, and pretty, but in the end pointless
glass words
exposing the ones made of hardened tears
and the jagged part of love
that can only be found
after you think its gone
words are hard
a reflection of the uncertainty and undoubted insanity 

thoughts 
running 
skipping 
jumping
boinging across my conciseness like ping pong balls
only the word "please"
stays in place 
please 
begging  me
please 
please
you repeat in my ears 
over
and over
until all i can hear
is the pounding 
rhythmic sound
of your pleading 
how much i want to oblige 
out of exhaustion 
i hear you 
your lashes lay heavy on my cheeks
but i flick my eyes open 
as the last rays of sunshine lose their grip on the tops of the pine trees
and go pulmeting down beneath the earth 
where i can see them no more
i hear you
pleading 
you whisper inside of me 
and i know
i should do the right thing
and sleep
but 
cant you see
i don't want to
the fear blocks you out dear whispers 
the relentlessly itchy bug bites on my feet keep you at bay
and though give in i know i must

 

so this morning i came across an old watercolor coloring book i had set aside, it still had the paints and paintbrush so i made this, the outlines were not mine, i just did the coloring. 

sometimes the pain creates a well in my chest
a well 
with a bucket 
that overflows with words
words for how it feels 
at 3 am
when i realize i might never see my grandmother again
words for when people break you down
to feel better about themselves 
words
for how it feels
to have nothing left
but still be going 
still be breathing 
living
but
not
because
you may be alive
but the light has faded from your eyes
and you dont smile anymore
you arent living 
trapped
in the fingerprint smuged glass
that hangs on the wall
over the sink in the bathroom
i see you
i see me
and how it feels
its stepping on shattered glass
and not caring
its the taste of unsweetended chocolate 
and salt thrown across the floor
its the way my voice breaks 
when i try to tell you 
the words
that i pull up
slowly 

i dont know what to do anymore. im tired of being lonely and i wish i could just bash my head into the wall until i cant feel anything anymore. sometimes i curl my hands into fists until my fingernails dig into my palms, because i feel like i cant do anything i cant fix the sickness in my grandmother's body, i cant solve the puzzle of the girl i love, im not even able to cry anymore. things just feel dull, empty, blank. i dont even know what i want, i just want to stop feeling so alone and despreate and sad. maybe i should stop listening to sad music, but it makes me feel like somebody understands. sometimes i wonder if im addicted somehow, in some twisted sick way, to this feeling of emotional suffering. i lie of course, when people ask me how i am, i smile and make myself live in a mask, a porcilain vase around my head, sculpted from my fear, fear of people knowing that. . . im not ok. that im sad underneath the happy smiles and determined attidute.

i look at the nick nakcs on the windowsill
take in the stained crumb littered green carpet
pick up the yellow mason jar filled full of coins and small green slips of paper 
choises 
like all the ones we make in life
choises to leave the clay pigeon head i made two years ago 
or toss out the nurmorus headbands that lay in my desk draw unworn
for i dont take to such things
choices to remove the black window shades that take forever to raise or lower 
choices to replace a painting my aunt made 
with one i created for myself
choices
to make my space
mine
take out the mirror that's exesively tall
get a much smaller bed, this one is too big and too cold
tear up the moss colored carpeting 
replace it with nice wooden flooring 
put lights in the closet
get a dresser for my clothes
put a desk in the corner 
so i can have a good working space

 

If you are wondering
the answer is no
I can't find my head 
it's left me alone
it ran off with the Mad Hatter to go have some tea 
so please
do not ask me
to use my brain 
for it is off
playing a game 
one of no point
and not one sensible player
for when my head leaves me
neither of us work as well as when we are together
see when my head leaves me 
oxygen becomes thick
and jam is wall putty 
cups all belong glued to the wall
and roses are only red cause they are bloody 
the many oddities that come to me 
thoughts and revelations 
that create a whole sea
ideas made of poppy seeds 
adorned with a thick icing of strange haunting dreams 
make a pile of dust 
and ticking cuckoo clocks 
that sit 
where my brain used to be 
and while it is off 
having a merry old time
I sit here and ponder 
while my ponderer is gone