PrettyPoetStacy
"Swept"
I never meant to go, was merely taken by mistake. A night-ride along a whim. I was simply following the tail-end of a moon-beam. But suddenly I was there, somewhere but no where at all. A wanderer in a forest-full of green and dreams. Something like Alice, I pushed my hands into the atmosphere and swam.
"Amplified"
The noise inside my mind. The muffled glare of the city streets beyond my window. They glow a world their own. Footfalls of pedestrians who travel in circles across the sidewalks. The blare of traffic horns, almost musical. The heart I hear between my ears when I read words that pull at my panic chords. I am but a filament of this smoky early evening. I float there, somewhere between crosswalks and streetlamps.
"Misery"
This word always makes me think of locked closet doors and broken ankles. About a mouth that can't form the words that heart has to say. Maybe because they don't speak the same language. Mostly I remember rooms darkened of vacant stares, bound by the principle of misunderstanding. Poised for war, I sit center square, pen waving the atmosphere like a magic wand until the void closes or the coffee cup empties itself...whichever happens first.
"Eyeliner"
I was eleven years old when I first discovered the chalky black buried beneath an avalanche of my mother's make=up. sparingly worn. I tried it on as a child tried crayons...smoothing it beneath each eye, across my brows until they were charco-black before masking my face in cold cream (also my mothers). Eyeliner and I never met again until my thirties, when someone nudged me with their elbow and described my eyes as 'pale.' These days I wear a thin coat just beneath my bottom lashes. Enough to to color the skin something other than peach white. And I'm satisfied. Yet I watch other women slather deep, black grooves beneath their eyes and wonder what their trying to hide.
"Shoes"
As a kid I hated them. Preferring, instead, to scratch callouses into the soles of my feet by the rough back-hands of gravel. No Spring was complete without a traipse through fresh rain-puddles; no summer quite as sweet without the tickling drops of dew across thin ankles. These days shoe-bags line my closet. Cup upon cup for my tiny, pale feet who have become shy over time.
"Shore"
I used to abhor the beach. Who needs a tan or those stiff plastic chairs, colorful as clown shoes? Or the iffy tourists in shiny skin whose bikini's just yell, "See Me?" Until I was nearly thirty, I never learned to appreciate the moon-cloud reflection, clipped into a thousand sky-lit reflections. Or the water, how like time, it rolled toward the shore and past, again and again, for eternity, yet never touching the exact same space twice
"Anthem"
That melodic epiphany that floats between the lips of teenagers. The vibrating thrill of your throat-muscle enunciating some symbolic word among a crowd. Life-speak undulating across your tongue like so many separate atoms becoming one. And so you can't help but sing your own chords against the steady stream of spirit-dance.
An overwhelming far-reach. Invisible. Inside my mind. An unrequited force of the equilibrium. I become a modern-day Alice in my steadily-stumbling-downward. I quiet my mind in meditation pose and suddenly the world spins itself. A shiny brain-wave vortex for which my daydreams are no match.
Not even thinking, I always take the dive. I prefer to align my life by the idea of duplicity. There are often two sides to every story, and an in-between. I speak my words, spin the wheel, roll the dice and await my destiny.
You read them in a hurry, small type as incovenient as the unheeded college manuals that get tossed along the wayside with last semsters half-written term papers. Except there's no such written documentation for the best way to be born, no choice in the matter of death or what conspires thereafter. So we sit in chairs, backs against metal, pens clicking at hand, and dream about life from the other side of the window.
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