Watching someone fade
Is like building a sand castle,
With bare hands and dry sand.
It takes a lot of energy,
To be naive.
To be constantly hopeful.
Grains of sand
Are cups of tea,
A Sunday morning donut,
A smile on a face,
They are what keeps you going,
What keeps you building the towers,
That stand guard against the rolling black clouds off shore,
Until all you are doing is looking up.
Unaware of the ground crumbling beneath you,
Unaware of why the castle is getting smaller,
Unaware of why a laugh is making you feel uneasy,
But you knew.
You knew before your soul wanted know,
You knew that it was all slipping through your fingers,
Like dry sand and bare hands,
You lost all control.
Now a laugh is a symptom,
A donut is now a reminder,
Of what could make you smile,
And tea is what I have when I think of you.
Tag Archives: writing
Watching someone fade
A laugh and a smile
“Why did you keep this?” I asked
I was looking over the drawing,
Amused at the colors and hard press lines
I still haven’t learned that a little can go a long ways,
Our triangular pink dresses and our big box blue shoes,
Both me and mom,
Oh the style I thought we had,
And there, my brother,
Shirt and shorts, identical red
And big black belt in between.
She looked at me with soft eyes.
“Eventually he disappeared from the drawings”
A double take,
Widened my search,
Hiding in the corner,
Above the square house with a perfect triangular roof,
Bright green stick figure with spiked purple hair,
A set of brown wings coming off your thin torso,
Smiling in all your glory.
Years hang between me and the paper,
An invisible timeline from then to now,
Oh the innocence of words,
Written in tiny rainbow letters.
I have learned about life with out you,
I wish I decorated you with style
But I guess you don’t need clothes up there.
Wind waves pass,
The house stays still,
Not wanting to play,
Ignoring the breath,
Staining the window.
Only the sound of time,
Remnants of moments,
That were once inviting,
Now covered in layers,
of distance and neglect.
Of a life once lived,
Etched with meaning,
Within its organs.
Trees are ever changing,
Waiting for a jolt,
From a storm or
An awaiting rainbow,
To bring a pulse,
Back into it’s walls,
And the wind,
Will come dancing through
As an old friend.
I wait for you to finish your thought,
the next one and the next,
I sit, patiently,
until my spine can no longer support my back,
I wait for you to ask me a question,
anything, just something to acknowledge,
I still exist somewhere in the back of a dusty filing cabinet.
I’m tired of leaving bread crumbs,
hoping you pick up the trail of my desperate heart,
I feel stupid needing some validation.
I am quiet, I know,
but my head is always busy, see,
I need you to help me let some of the voices escape,
One bounces off another,
I forget which one is the original,
Ask me how I am,
or how work is going, or how I like my tea,
or if i’m sleeping, if my mom is doing okay,
if I need anything, if I need a break,
if I am eating, if I am here,
something to pull me out of my own head,
maybe the voice that responds will be mine.
Ask me if I know what I am doing,
I have been doing a great bit of pretending,
fake confidence till you make it, they say,
I have been faking a lot of everything lately,
but I never guessed that I could have fooled you,
Every poem that begins,
Sounds like a eulogy
That I will have to give.
I can’t paint you
Into a thousand words
Watercolors always bleed
One thought into another.
The mind doesn’t allow
The ignoring of obvious possibilities.
Imagination, a child’s play thing,
The child being my anxiety,
My mind the playground,
The ground is lava.
My hands are always slipping
Across the monkey bars.
Is this insanity?
Maybe if I will it hard enough,
Lily pads will appear beneath my toes,
Will I be strong enough to let go
And trust that everything won’t burn?
I’m pink with the rising heat
Someone has a basketball
It vibrates though my body.
It is not me.
It is not me.
It can not be me.
Hanging above a deathlike pit,
Allows your mind to wander.
Imagine the tips of my fingers
As mini concrete cinder blocks,
Holding me in the air,
Like a circus trick.
I hold all my strength in my hands,
Out in the open for people to see,
If they wish to acknowledge it,
Strength can be intimidating.
Better to be left unsaid.
Better to fly across the monkey bars,
Show your flair and speed,
Those are qualities they want to see,
It is weakness to struggle.
Even if that struggle,
Means hanging everyday,
Thump, thump, thump,
Heart is always racing in your ears,
A reminder you are alive,
Keeping on the pressure,
With the rising heat,
That you must not let go.
Isn’t that strength?
Never letting go.
Even though it would be easier,
To get some long deserved relief.
So, my words can keep sounding,
Like a eulogy that I will have to give,
But I’ll use them as gloves,
To keep my self up in the air.
I’m done and out,
feeling this way.
I’m gaining sensations back in my legs,
Finally learning to stand again,
I’m remembering what it is like
to be able to stretch my limbs,
Without being afraid,
That I might offend somebody
With my reaching of the stars.
Words seemed small,
Now I braid them into my hair,
So everyone knows that I
Give my vocabulary meaning,
No longer allowing society
To hide the brightest parts of me
In a never ending eclipse,
No longer feeling ashamed
To let my heart lead the way.
I want to shine until the darkness
pushes past the horizon,
Merely a speck of dirt on my rear view mirror,
Until it just adds character to the vehicle,
No longer deserving a second glance.
At ten years old
she should tuck her braids
behind her ears so the
sun can reach her face.
Her worries should be
keeping her balance
to keep her record
of perfect hop scotch.
She should feel the grass
inbetween her toes as
she collects dandelions
along the stream.
She should be asking
how she can reach
the sweetest berries
on the highest tree.
But quietly in her room
she is burdened with
asking the questions
beginning with why.
Every morning she wakes
reminded quickly of
the weight she feels
on her shoulders.
She has a perfect
record of balancing
her younger sister.
At ten years old
she tucks the strap
of her mother’s bra
underneath her sleeve.