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

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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.

Creativity suppressed
by depressed thoughts
the war is fought
in the mind
a palace becomes
a prison

Anti-Valentines-Day-Metal-Playlist

 

 

 

The flowers have long since wilted

 

Chocolate kisses have melted

 

You never came

 

I tire of plucking petals

 

Being a starry-eyed maid-in-waiting…

 

For you to come

 

Bleeding love?

 

My heart has turned tortoise shell

 

You took too long

 

The relationship sailed on

 

Leaving me to drown with insecurities

 

 

timemanagementtipsThe smoke rose like wispy serpents, fiery tongues licked the ground. Buildings burned and a barbecue smell waft through the air. Somewhere amid the charcoal rubble an amber eye popped open. Then a leg in tattered slacks wiggled beneath a board. An arm shot through the rubble. After a few minutes she was free.  Tiny sparks danced on her corduroy sleeve, her midnight curls matted with blood and sweat. She was cut and bruised, but she would soon heal. She hobbled among the destruction, a twisted unicycle here, an engulfed vehicle there. She stopped and covered her nose with the collar of her shirt.  She stared at the gutted frame of the wheel of time. It no longer spun. Panic began to drum inside her chest. She stepped backwards. Since the beginning of time the wheel has spun around and around. “Hello,” she called out. She squinted her eyes, scanning the smoke filled horizon. Where were all the people?  A patch of blue fell from above.

“Oh my stars.”  Another piece of blue fell near her shoe. Time was unraveling.  “No. No.” She raked her hands across her damp curls. “This isn’t good.” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. A faint ticking sound reached her ears. She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket. The timepiece, it was ticking. Albeit a half second too slow. “There’s still time.” A smile broke like a rule across her face.  She started to run, her legs moving with a sense of purpose. She needed to find the time capsule.

She was on a desolate street with abandoned cars with flung open car doors. She looked around. She took a step, something squeaked beneath her foot. A faded rubber duck. She wondered about the child it belonged to. She picked it up. There in the distance was the time capsule protruding from the side of a building. She couldn’t recall how she got so far away. As she made her way toward the time capsule, a figure swaddled in black stood between her and the time capsule. The hood pulled back, revealing the cherub face of a boy who had not reached puberty. “Well that’s a clever costume.” Tesla clenched her fist.

“For the time being,” the boy replied. “I don’t want to fight you. We are the same, you and I. Two sides of a coin.” The boy grinned but the smile didn’t reach his steel gray eyes.

Tesla spat on the ground. “I’m nothing like you. You want to destroy all the world. There are people here.”

“The world was once destroyed by a flood. And yet there are still people here. I think it’s time to start anew again.” The boy pulled out a gold gleaming pocket watch. It swung like a pendulum.

“Where did you get that?” The boy laughed, emitting a metallic sound. With a swish of his cloak he headed toward the time capsule. Tesla sprang forward grabbing for the trailing cloak. The boy spun around and elbowed Tesla in the face. She recovered but not quick enough. The boy was already in the time capsule, a triumphant grin on his face. He disappeared in a blink.

Tesla’s hand balled into a fist, she opened it. And there was the pocket watch. Now the ends of her cut mouth curved upward. There was still time to save everything and everyone.

 

The Barksdale Pigeons

The Barksdale pigeons were the foulest of the fowl. There were four of them. Four feathered terrors who ruled the stoop. If you don’t believe me just take a gander.

Twyla, the sparrow was most delighted to have a piece of cornbread betwixt her beak. She hopped and tilted her head to the side and gave a sweet little tweet. Suddenly a shadow loomed over Twyla. She dropped her cornbread. Coo. The ominous trill filled the space. “Give me that cornbread.”

Twyla eyes grew to the size of sunflower seeds. It was one of those foul Barksdale pigeons. “Are you daft? Give me that cornbread.” The pigeon’s head jerked left and right.

Twyla pick up her cornbread. It was only one of them. Right now she felt as big as a crow. “No,” she trilled. “It’s mine.” She flapped her wings.

The other three pigeons landed next to their brother. “She giving you trouble?” the brothers asked.

“She’s giving me her cornbread.” The brother pecked the top of Twyla’s head. She dropped the cornbread. The brothers all made a beeline for the cornbread. Twyla jumped back. The Barksdale pigeons were all feathers as they peck away at her food. Twyla stared, the top her teeny noggin smarting. One of the Barksdale pigeons looked up. “Scat away feathered mouse.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. She flapped her wings and flew away. Make someday those feathered rats would pick on the wrong bird.