Closed eyes, I can still see your golden light

Muted sounds, I can still hear echoes of dulcet laughter

Everything is still, but I remember the wind upon my skin

Though the tress are bare. I still remember the autumn leaves

The wind howled like an injured wolf. The windows rattled like angry ghosts. Arlo buried himself deeper into his blankets. “I’m not scared,” he muttered. He took a peek. Lightning lit the navy sky. “It’s just a storm.” Arlo came from under his blankets. “I’m safe inside my room.”

Hello, I am still here.

The skies are gray. These eyes never dry. The scream surges up my throat. It takes too much to keep them at bay. Joy was lost somewhere between 27 and 35. My blood boils with anger. My fists clench. The skies are gray. I am blue. No Pollyanna words can assuage my feelings. I drift in a sea of faces. I don’t want to be in these places. Antisocial. It takes so much energy to be vocal. The gray skies remain. Am I insane? The gray skies wait outside my window. The anger grows. I want to punch faces. The rain falls from my eyes. I don’t want to be in this place.

The stars wasn’t as lonely as she/ gathered with many/ pinpricks in the sky/ tears pricked her eyelids/ The sun wasn’t as lonely as she/ The sky his very home/ clouds passing by/ The days just passing her by/  The streams wasn’t as lonely as she/ For she was always running into rivers/ She was running out of time / She was one in the universe/ a lonely planet/ orbiting herself

Almost forget that April is poetry month. Well here’s something. It’s not great. Or good. More on the okay side.

 

She stood on the edge of the shore/unsure which way the tide rolls/dreams ebb away/far as ocean from sky/They seem to meet somewhere unseen/There she stood/ while ocean wave goodbye.

 

 

Her colors were muted. She wanted to be bright. To shine like the sun. She was dour, dressed in black. Gray was her brightest color. She wanted to see something more…to be. But her vision was blurry. It rain from windows. She didn’t know how to begin. The yellow brick road. The unbeaten path. She was blue girl with shades of gray dancing before her eyes.

She was born on a Saturday. A sunny day. The clouds came as she grew older. The tears rolled. Whys rattled in her head. Teeth gritted with frustration. Where was the break in the clouds?
She was born on a Saturday. Everyday she felt pieces of herself dying. The underside of dark clouds were her ceiling. Dreams were a mirage.
She was born on a Saturday. Early July. But inside she felt like mid December. Frozen over dreams. She was born on a Saturday.

These feelings can’t last always

hands pressed against the glass

drowning in an ocean of tears

burning bright

stars eventually go dim

collapsing

dreams lost in the black

whole lot of doubt

Turning over into a new day

but still the same

a lone star

in an overcrowded sky

outside the social circles

invisibly traipsing

 

She felt like a drop in the ocean. So small and insignificant. Everyday she was just going through the motions. Dreams in the rear-view mirror, closer than they appear. She felt like a failure, no matter how hard she tried. Nothing.  She was well into adult hood and she felt her only dream slipping through her fingers like water. She knows that everybody isn’t meant to be rich. And she wasn’t trying to gain the world’s acknowledgement. She just wanted a career in children’s literature. But every turn she was turned away. All her life she didn’t feel she was good at anything. She struggled through school..life.

She had this creative spark. But she could feel it dying everyday when she went to her retail job. She spent much of her twenties applying to corporate jobs, only to receive  a form letter explaining how someone else was more qualified. She really didn’t want to be stuffed in a cubicle. She wanted to make her living writing middle-grade fiction. She reads about all the book deals of other people (some much younger than she is). After reading about the success Amanda Hocking had with self-publishing, she decided to go that route.  But of course being a successful self-published author wasn’t in the cards. Selling 10 copies doesn’t get you noticed by agents and publishers.

She’s on the cusp of being 40 and she wonders if all her youth was spent chasing a dream that so many seek but few find.