Spoken

I have no thoughts I can nail down,
A superhighway through the crown,
So much talking so few words,
Seeking cream and finding curds,
Floating aimless against my will,
I cannot move and can't sit still,
Is it the planets or the stars?
Or just the fear of showing scars,
Imperfections curse my mirror,
Until the blur gets ever clearer,
I have nothing more to give,
And yet my words still breathe, still live,
I feel the surface just now breaking,
All I know now is the aching,
Remove the robes to show the skin,
Build up the good to smite the sin,
As tongues work harder now to hide,
The darkened places deep inside,
The light attacks and tears me open,
Pray the truth now shall be spoken

Broken open

I once thought I was broken but the truth is I'm broken open,
That nerve that screams from the slightest breeze,
The skinned knee that means adventure,
That succulent orange freed from it's rough skin ready to be devoured,
That snake that now shows a new skin, more vibrant then before,
That boring rock that hides earths lustrous treasures,
That sentence or sound that you could never let slip,
the one that could end everything or begin the healing,
That present that you never knew you wanted and now it is the best one you have ever received,
I am unwrapped, I am exposed, I am naked, I am raw,
The useless discarded,
the substance within ready to be tasted

A Breath so Deep, A Heart so Full

My eyes can only take in the pleasure of it all,
My mouth can only sit agape at the wonder,
My heart squeezes it's feelings to my eyes for it is too much to hold in,
My arms have lost all sense of purpose and composure,
My stomach a creature that folds and twists and flutters,
My legs like the new branches on a spring tree, flimsy and weak,
bending and bowing,
My mind already replaying the moment
and bounding off to preplan the future of what it could mean,
My breath labored with the joy of it all,
sucking it's moments more and more quickly,
What a glorious extremity,
The opposite of tragedy, the opponent to despair,
Here is where we all should live, this is what we all should feel.
Found, Loved, Known, Seen.

The Creaking Wheel Part 2

Her feet pounded up the stairs, ringing with each step on the metal. She wore a wheelmen’s uniform that had been altered to fit her small frame and topped it off with an expression of determination. Her teeth sat tightly clenched in her cheeks, squaring her jawline. Her hands were balled into white knuckled fists and moved rigidly at her sides as she walked. She pushed the door open, and it banged loudly against the wall. A chorus of men chuckled and shouted, “New Guy!” and the chorus carried throughout the workroom. As the second round of jeers began, they turned to see the boss’s daughter standing there slowly pinking in the face. They stopped heckling, some mid-syllable, and the room fell silent except for the moaning of the machinery. She surveyed the work room and was met with darting glances and some sneers below the goggles on the men’s faces. She heard everyone clear their throat at least once and wondered if this was some kind of secret code the workers had to communicate dissatisfaction amongst each other. She lowered her eyes and made her way to the office to meet her father and husband. The heavy door swung open, creaking a warning to the workers. Her father stepped out the door of the office and looked at each worker, face by face. Most of them turned back to their work when he made eye contact, some did so after a very audible gulp. If she didn’t know better she would think that they were trying to be funny. Her father was well revered among the workers but also feared. She had seen him fly off the handle when a worker made a nearly fatal mistake; she had never seen the color that was upon his face that day anywhere else in nature before or since. She stepped in the office, and the door creaked shut behind her. “Are you sure you want to do this honey?” her father asked. He took a breath to say more, but she held up her hand and simply said, “I’m sure.” They spent the rest of the work day going over the schematics of the wheel, vital safety measures, and how the wheel was operated. After they were done, they made their way out of the office. Most of the workers had already left for the day, and the rest were in the lockers packing up. Her father led her to the wheel. He asked her to name off the safety rules with the exact wording and in the exact order in which he had taught them to her. She made it three-quarters of the way down the list and started to flounder. “You’re not ready,” he said sternly. She nodded dejectedly. Her husband tried to plead with her father for another chance. “Don’t worry darling, tomorrow morning I will be correcting him on the rules,” she said winking. “I don’t doubt it for a second honey,” her father said nodding. “If that’s the case,” he continued, “then tomorrow, you work the wheel.”

Resolution

As the fog of another year gone by is slowly lifted, A brand new year has now begun with which we have been gifted, More time to find our happiness, More time to ease our pain, More time to reinvent ourselves then go back to the same, For hope cannot survive alone, it must be reinforced, So little changes can be the stones upon our new found course, Don't paint an angel, paint it's wing, or even just a feather, With each new wisp of fluffy white the bigger piece gets better, One day you'll take a look around, in a year or maybe seven, And realize your tiny wisps have turned into your heaven.

Old Records

Skin and hair and nails shedding, disposing of their past selves for the new and improved, But the brain and heart are much to prideful, Clinging to so much that does more damage than good. Storing the refuse of pain and betrayal, Hoarding insecurities, Collecting bad memories like old records that pop and crack and hiss. Playing those old worn out tunes that time has tried so desperately to fade. Though the song is garbled, we know it word by word and sing it much too often. An unconscious humming of self destruction. Each day life composes a symphony, yet we remain hooked on the ditties and dirges of days gone. Jingles are catchy but don't get caught. It time to sing the tunes that make your heart swell, the tunes of triumph, the movements that actually move us, and don't forget to dance.

Sleepless

When you count out the hours you have left to sleep, and you start to dwell on all the secrets you keep, all your moments of shame turn your face again red, or their crumpled up face from that thing that you said, All the promises broken too late for a cast, All the friends you once had that now live in your past, All the bills marked tomorrow or much further past due, all the things you've abandoned cause you've so much to do, Now there's no time for dreaming just lying awake, Besides what are dreams now but more promises to break