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Silence bears down; a cacophony of loneliness
as I sit, surrounded
by empty canvases and a palette full
of inarticulate desire.
Thunder threatens to break the hazy light of seeming calm
as it settles into the night air,
reminding me to close my window.
But the weight of emptiness paralyzes my limbs,
though my hand closes around a paintbrush.
And though I sit bound by stillness,
colors dance behind open lids
to the beat of my heart pulsing in my left wrist:
strokes of crimson regret fading in and out under the overlay
of a wistful moon’s azure reflection.
But the brightest patterns dissipate into hesitation
before my tired fingers can distinguish their form.
And I remain alone,
but for the hum of night whistling through my open window,
and a lap-full of blank canvas:
a testament to indecision.

Sometimes I wish I could
slap the happiness
off these people’s
fucking faces

Dark green, and wild,
Earth turns
as slowly as a father
fighting to keep beauty alive
while Family spins out of control
perpetually
keeping rhythm with a desperate world
and love’s broken pieces.
But the dirt screams purple
protest to
a pair of bare feet
running full-force Away
into such light shed by only the
darkest dreams.

And oh, what dreams.

Each sleeping moment spins hours of
delicately
delightful
deliverance
taking the shape of succulent pain.
Even waking doesn’t dissipate the
too-heavy thoughts which fill
suffocating emptiness
with nauseating Idea.
So daylight brings
crimson screams that threaten
strength of angels,
but none yet break
this not-quite woman’s
ironically smirking mouth.

Ironic, like a mother
throwing sharpened words with a master’s precision
in vivid opposition to her
most intrinsic desires.
But Love overpowers even the loudest
hypocrisy,
stopping Earth mid-rotation
to graffiti blue paint onto
one family’s wild hearts
(ten)
and a not-quite woman’s uncovered toes
(ten).

Can you see those cracking feet?
They chase time,
running toward the opposite direction—
losing it.
That’s what happens when a person lives
one-day-at-a-time
to avoid yesterday
to escape tomorrow.

But Earth
continues to turn,
dark green, and wild,
despite
(or maybe because of)
the violence that lingers in
the should-be innocent heart
trapped in a silhouetted form
sprinting toward midnight
freedom.

There’s something positively
seductive
about the smell of a very old
book

An idea suspends in heavy air,
pulled by imaginary wires
that would glint silver
if they could be touched by sunlight.
It pulsates slightly,
as a child lifts her slim fingers—
though she barely touches its surface,
it consumes cautious warmth,
and grows.

Grows.

Grows.

Into a slender thought
bleeding ‘neath her fingernails;
distilled by sheets of pale skin,
coloring her murky bloodstream.
When the image finally reaches
her trusting brain,
it pierces tasty innocence,
leaving tiny hollows where its fish lips had been.
Then,
slowly,
softly,
simply,
it feeds
until newfound fortitude morphs into fins,
subtle and scintillating—
shifting into a dream
that dives directly into the vivid purple beams
at the core
of a young mind.

There’s a moment that comes with the warmth of the lights and the loud swell of music… and it doesn’t matter that seconds ago you were so anxious and sore that you felt like throwing up and dying… because when it comes, all of that disappears– everything does. There is no audience, no stage; you’re suspended in the stars, dancing on a firm field of dreams. Because you’ve abruptly changed– not into another person, but yourself; the You that was meant to be. More beautiful, free, alive, with everything you ever wanted at the tips of your glistening fingers. Because you’re dancing. And it feels good.