It feels like a lock
Click
slamming shut on a door I used to walk through without thinking.
Words
they pile up inside me.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just trapped.
Like a river swelling against a dam that will not break.
My mouth is stone.
My body heavy.
And every attempt to speak is like running in a dream:
legs sinking,
distance endless,
the finish line always just out of reach.
Inside, I am screaming.
Inside, I am whispering.
Inside, I am still me.
But you can’t hear me.
Because the silence is thick.
Not empty, no.
Thick with frustration,
thick with shame,
thick with the ache
of wanting
so desperately wanting to be understood
without having to explain.
So don’t rush me.
Don’t push me.
Stay.
Wait with me
in the quiet.
Because this silence
is not absence.
It is survival.
It is my body saying:
enough.
And when I return
when my voice crawls back
know this:
I was never gone.
I was always here.
Behind the glass.
Behind the lock.
Still me.
Always me.
We cling to what's fallen
in the lay of layers.
Leaves yield to the wind,
drifting down when time's up.
Pages of books flip over to
pile up as what's been read.
Days ripped from calendars
records the passage of time spent.
Musical notes strike the melodies for
verses on the score.
Words land on pages to craft our
letters, works and poems.
The lay of what we leave behind
in layers, showcases a life well spent
in the lay of leaves.
Pile Up
self-perceived failure, blame
guilt, disappointment, shame
Pressure
unexpressed, unfulfilled needs
expectations nobody heeds
Perilous Pitch
consider this - you are much bigger
someone small can be the trigger
Pyrotechnics
An explosion, shrapnel sent
wounds the nearby innocent
Peace at Last
great, now you have relief
you now have peace, however brief
Pain
shrapnel cuts deep, like a knife
imbeds itself, there's pain for life
Perception is alluding or even amply deceptive,
people may seem very strange and so delusive
in the interaction with sophisticated society:
where the norm is to display intellectuality
in the way they dress, the way they speak;
God help them when personal secrets leak,
will they expose their unflinching character?
I suggest all remain true to their valued ideals,
and despite the possible derision from peers
not brought up with a strict criteria of morals,
it won't make anyone feel less than an individual:
who has made an effort to stand out from all?
Figure out who'll be enraged and criticized!
Consider the fragility of spirit not reassured by self-worth,
but firmly strengthened by strong temptation and want;
the accumulation of riches without the value they impart,
pile up mountains of it only to show their immense wealth!
One of the richest men that ever existed pondered upon this,
hoping that his chosen heirs would be shrewd and not squander it
for some wits, but managed it wisely remembering his many sacrifices:
would they honor it with the certainty, not with the fear it wouldn't last?
The sky opened up and suddenly, snow begins to fall
quickly, the large snowflakes jump from the sky
and start to pile up on the ground, quickly covering
whatever is in it's path, including people and cars
The windshield wipers can't keep up, even on high
the thought of just going back home crosses my mind
Winter is not my favorite season, but the beauty of the layer
of white that covers the world is not lost on me
Cold hits me in the face as I leave my warm car
and the beauty fades a bit as walking on slick surfaces
reminds me why Winter makes me grumpy
I don't like being cold, the beautiful snow makes even
walking hard to do. Can we just fast forward to Spring?
The wind blows and the cold, wet snow hits me in my face
and I sigh and try not to grumple as I get inside as fast
as I can without falling on my face.
I am a collector of worthless things
How they pile up I have no inkling
I clean out my junk drawer at two o’clock
It is crammed full of extra things by two fifteen.
Do others have this problem?
What solution have you found?
Would it work for me?
Bear in mind I refuse to throw away anything
And a husband who stuffs all his extra stuff into drawers.
Arrows, what are they good for?
In an embodied dungeon very near to
my molested liver
arrows pile up, bundles of barbs,
each one a love letter
that missed its mark.
Some older ones
still drip an attenuated poison
from their blunted tips.
Yes, love can be cruel
but it is rarely accurate.
It lives only to maim you
until you know how to live
with yet deeper wounds,
those piercing near misses
lodged between heart
and hope.
swaying gently, with the wind, her mournful dance
leaves unconvinced of autumn’s breathless fingers
ruffled as shy feathers who tremble by chance
risking impulse who silence says still lingers
autumn tells news of crackling paths so perfect
paved with golds, oranges and reds to collect
puzzling dreams pile up in the spirit who sees
songs of grace, fall’s aching praise on dew drenched lawns
melodies rich with hope, betrothed to the trees
who wander across peaks, peace on quiet dawns
jolt of what it means to believe in autumn
calm painting silence like a foggy bottom
wars were fought, once upon a time, on her soil
she breathed in the aching sent of bloody souls
while the sunlight caught hearts with glittery foil
autumn whispered her right that always consoles
far and wide, I see the splendor of her voice
even though I love her, I haven’t any choice
she has gone to such trouble to seek me out
leaving my heart immersed in her misty quest
I’ll always love this season, without a doubt
she is the one who assures me I am blessed
without her quiet ways, her chorus of praise
I wouldn’t know the beauty that can still amaze
Thought streams manifested the dream,
Where shadows come alive and voices gleam,
I was both subject and object there,
Meandering through the domain of endless air.
Methinks things are not what they seem,
A ruffle inside a larger stream,
Which specter do we reject,
When does truth itself seem circumspect?
The dreams pile up like veiled morning mist,
Their world vanishes with a gentle morning glow,
A mirrored hall where dancers perform various acts,
The reality intermingled with false escapes.
In dreams within dreams, where does it end?
Does waking mean we comprehend?
Or are we all but fleeting schemes,
Forever lost in nested dreams?
The sun sailed in a graceful arc
through a sky of azure blue
as rainbows are known to do.
Among the clouds, sometimes dark,
he always came shining through
as he kept on and flew.
Alas, it only seemed...mid-flight?
he was jolted by twilight,
where sun and skyline would crash soon
with explosive yellow and red,
and the sun would soon be dead,
black sky ruled by a bone white moon.
So, it is daily I ignore
signs that pile up more and more.
I postponed twilight's shock
'til I bent down, can't get up no more.
I can't get up off the floor.
Can you put on my sock?
Years pile up like shadows, long and still,
Etching the limits of dreams and will.
Youth, a spark, now smothered by grace,
But the soul's depth, no moment can erase.
In quiet lines, in silver threads,
A life at one time was lived and spread.
For age is not a closing page,
But a mirror that reflects an endless stage.
filth collects in the round corners,
sticky as a bad memory,
the floorboards groan like they're tired
of holding me up.
roaches scatter like thoughts I can’t catch,
minds have gone mad—
the neighbors scream through paper-thin walls
about things no one should hear.
their bottles pile up like broken promises,
my own reflection, greasy in the cracked mirror,
eyes hollow, lost
in the haze of another night too long.
my only excape is deep sleep and dreams I can't run from.
the world shrinks around me,
each breath a heavier load,
like there’s no air,
only walls closing in,
and like me you know theirs no way out.
This state!
It’s different from before.
Like my life has gone through some weird, internal war!
Age making body say no, no-way!
Mind raring to go on and play.
This state.
Age has caught me up.
Body before seemed never to give up.
Now something fixes and then something else breaks!
Seems to be the state of living in this state.
This state.
Accepting that I can’t fall out the tree.
A graze, bruise cut or tear takes so much longer to heal.
Caution where dare used to be!
This state.
Years pile up like heavy sacks on my back.
Can’t eat, can’t drink anything that I used to down without any slack.
Teeth want to fall out of my head!
Hair starts growing in my nose, losing its way from growing on my head!
This state!
A warm fire and a comfy chair.
Appreciating where before I never seemed to care.
Enjoying simple things like a cup of tea.
Just confirms that I’m older than I thought I’d ever be!
If I can drive, I do not walk.
I no more write letters; by cell phone I talk.
I sometimes hide dirt under the rug.
Most things in my house I do not unplug.
I like my clothing permanent pressed,
and I go to bed sometimes not undressed.
Fun things I do most of the day
by putting things off so I can play.
Dishes pile up inside my sink.
I take out the garbage when it starts to stink.
Chores can wait till the house drives me crazy.
I do all these things
just because . . .
I am lazy.
I love you dearly, in ways your little foibles can never deny,
With your laugh, your smile, the bright twinkle in your eye.
But when I see your clothes strewn all askew,
Perhaps the smitten, has bitten off too much to chew!
The dishes pile up, the socks are everywhere.
The clutter expands to chaotic mayhem in which I despair.
Your shoes live like vagrants, begging on the stairs.
Your papers, like confetti, cast litter over tables and chairs.
So here's my plea, my love, a fear I must confess.
I love you dearly, but not your lovely mess!
So let's tidy up together, or hire a helping hand!
While rocking, rolling, jiving to our favorite band.
For while messiness is a sign, they say, of a creative mind,
Mindless mess does not feed my mind to be creative in kind.
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