You carry the winds upon your back,
for fear there won't be enough to nudge
you forward when you lose your way.
But I was never one for
better safe than sorry
and I'd rather go my whole life
without a hard days work than
know exactly where I've been
and where I'm headed.
(in the depths, where even your lamp-light eyes can't shine, I'll wander onward)
It's nights like these
I tell myself
that flushing you
out of my life was
the best thing I
could have done.
That rain pelts
the earth hard and
unrelenting for a reason
and the peals of thunder
are just a facade
because nothing could roar
so loud but a crushed ego
and nothing could crack
so sharply but a broken heart.
I blind my eyes and remind
myself that mother knows best
and some sins
are better left unseen.
One day I'll stop repenting
but for now I'll pray
that March is more
a lion than a lamb and
the bile in my throat is
just the remnants of
your sewer-system soul.
Despite this fevered haze
of roiling dreams and aspirations
I can still see far enough to know
that questions lose their value
when you've heard the answer,
but a turn of phrase could save
you from that raven on your chest.
dangle that carrot a little closer to my face by daybreaksmiles, literature
Literature
dangle that carrot a little closer to my face
I was never one for games
like monkey-in-the-middle,
my feet planted
too firmly in the ground
for me to win.
But even as you stand there,
heart raised just out of reach,
I can't keep from rolling up
high on my toes, hopeful fingers
stretching out...
You've waded through the worst,
child, so dry your eyes,
they've got better things to do
than drain the sea.
But
tie a ribbon 'round your wrist
lest you forget
it's only in the sun
that the shadows don't shine,
and if you say
please and thank you
the dawn will come swift enough.
(to knock you off your sodden little feet)
She wanted to sleep,
to shut her sea-shell eyes and wait
until she was remembered; found
and prised open. Maybe then she would be
finished - stable - content
with eighty good years behind her
and a few more gathered
soft and pink on the horizon.
They must have chosen a pattern
too small; she wasn't cut out
for all this confusion.
Each day a patchwork of choices unfolded
but her threadbare wisdom
couldn't keep her on course.
She wanted to slip between the seams of time
and see what she was weaving toward.
Then maybe she could grasp
the phantom thread of her future
before it was lost in the grain.
they don't make maps for a place like this by daybreaksmiles, literature
Literature
they don't make maps for a place like this
I'm stuck somewhere
between great rollings hills
and a sweet-calm sea,
but the air doesn't smell
of salt or dandelions.
Only this heavy
cloying breeze that sticks
in my throat and fills
my lungs with the sharp tang
of musk and pine
reminds me that I'm
not far from home. And
in the distance there
is a rolling clamor;
a whistle crying long and low.
But there are no signs,
no landmarks.
Though I've wandered days
through this strange
beautiful world,
traipsing across smooth plains
and sharp plateaus, I've
never crossed the
same path twice...
One thought rings true in
this foreign land:
dear, don't be alarmed
I only lose my