Anomalies frolicking within a broken antidote 
Smoky clouds shelter the falling of the sky 
Neglected agriculture stands bare of love and cherish 
A flower, alone in a field of grass
Wind touches the flower petals ever so gently 
Flowers do not thrive in darkness, nor do they accept the fate of death 
Leaving seeds behind for a different world blind to the present eye
A sallow light creates shine in a world of darkness, paving change within an antidote 
Seeds prosper in an open world, unsheltered in which truth and harmony can cherish the soil below 
Before seeds can grow in a field of snow
The change of it all starts with a single charcoal rose 

A fear,
more when I don't know why,
the jitters become so fast that I appear still,
sound so loud it all goes quiet.
Breath so shallow I might not be breathing.
I may have slipped so fast,
so slow,
that I don't know what's happening.
Thoughts become a rainforest of creatures,
while brain muttled with black inc.
My body just reacts to action,
But my feet are steered right and left,
back and forward.
yes,
right and left,
back and forward,
a pattern that seems to be all I can manage,
And nothing I can do all at the same time.
A fear.


 

Looking through old notebooks, I found a poem about the same metaphor, but with a different energy entirely. It's older, so obviously not my best work, but still a pleasant surprise I'd like to share.

Iron bars and burlap sacks,
thats what he described me as.
just metal and skin,
with a brain added in,
stoic, heroic, immune to the pin.

but the pin was a word and the word was a knife,
and the thick leather tore, letting loose all the lies.
what broke free and flew out
was just sorrow and clouds,
and a bright bleeding heart, full of frightening sounds.

a burlap sack of iron bars;
to the rest of the world, that's who we are.
just metal and leather,
never under the weather.
but deep down lies the heart, encircled in feathers.

Can ghosts die?
Can they walk through cats and doors and memories one last time
Can they drift to the tops of old ghost-cherry trees and look out at the rising clouds
Can they lock themselves, pull themselves, drag themselves down
Can ghosts cry?
Does it feel like mist, or steam, or old brandy seeping from the side of a brittle barrel
Do the tears squeak out like pudding between harmonica teeth
Like jello from a trumpet mouth or trifle from a tight-lipped vase
Can ghosts wave goodbye?
Do ghosts get the chance to kiss the smooth tops of their gravestones
To mark their ghost-handprints in white chalk along brick walls
Do they march off to the sound of ghost-brass bells
Does my ghost want to cry?

 

Welcome to procrasti-nation
Get here by our new train station
The cars are always running late
But that's simply regulation

Listen to my swell narration
Feel your heart bounce with elation
As you near your truest home
Where all hearts are beyond inflation

Here you will find no damnnation
In just avoiding your own frustration
In fact the surgeons here have often
Gone out for drinks during operation

In fact, avoiding's our foundation
And that's why there's such a large migration
Of buisness men and fancy gals
Who come here to find salvation

Every day is a vacation
Our leaders swim in adoration
Well, they don't really swim, of course
More use devices of flotation

There's never been an altercation
A boast, a brag, an allegation
Everyone's too busy being dozy 
For any evil calculation

The only reason for confescation

billowing golden-peach
clouds and flowing blue
sky in the afternoon sun. lying

the radiant backdrop
to a gliding falcon, cutting 
through winter’s brisk air

like the little sailboat i rode
last summer. the lake is calm,
the wind runs her fingers through my hair

a reminder to my weary eyes
that summer comes and goes,
this trouble will not last

and then, 
back to work.
 

Rotten. It smells rotten in this city. It has been this way since before I can remember. 

I was born here, in a place where everything is dirty and there is nothing interesting to look at. Mother always told me that was how it is. It’s all she’s ever known too. It’s all anybody in this city knows. Anybody on this planet. 

    My father.

    My brother.

    My cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents.

    They haven’t experienced clean air, or wide open spaces. None of us have. We have all been stuck here, with already used air and factories that burn so much stuff I’ve seen a boy pass out from simply breathing too deeply.

    Everyday I open the phone to check the pollution rate to see if it’s safe to go outside. Sometimes it’s so bad that my mother makes me wear a gas mask. They are distributed throughout each household, one for each family member. 

she fades away as fast as she appeared
no one mourns the living
the barely alive

her
worth
is defined by
her face
the same face that contorts into silent screams 
when no one is looking
caring

so they forget her
they forget 
her laugh
her smile
her dreams

she watches them forget
she's beginning to forget herself too