early summer

The air crackles in anticipation of the coming storm. Birds fly frantically, leaves shake violently, the sun consents to be hidden, all in preparation of the beautiful, awesome event about to take place. The last vestiges of blue are erased, as the sky flashes with light, and a distant, yet ever-present booming is heard in the distance. The very atmosphere is suffused with potential. This is truly the most magical time of all. Anything could happen and still seem plausible, when taken away from sunlight's harsh realities.

she

So she’ll write about it. The things she’ll never see, the places she’ll never get to go, the things she’ll never achieve, the dreams she’ll never get to fulfill, the people she’ll never get to meet. It’s all in her head, waiting to be passed on to the next dreamer, while all the other folk of the world get to experience the things she can only imagine. Life is too confusing, too disturbing and riddled with mire for her to partake in. She can see all the things she wants, but knows she will never amount to anything because she wants too much. So she’ll write about it. To get it out of her head. To have done something. To be able to tell herself that she has lived, albeit vicariously through her carefully crafted words.

She knows her stories, her worlds, don’t exist. But the world is too scary, too real to be lived in, the only way to stay alive is to replace the broken things with idealistic things, things that can be explained or, at the very least, be magical instead of empty and hopeless. The stories ignite a fire in her, and are the only thing through which she has ever received solace. The blank page screams to be given a structured world where the character knows their own mind, is sure of their feelings, is tested through conflict and struggle, and always has the courage and good heart required for the happy ending. Black and white. Structure. Resolution. Clarity. The words and ideas and stories and hopes have been bottled up for so long, it is difficult to get them out. Difficult to write through the haze of forgetfulness. The racing thoughts don’t leave until they are expressed on the screen, or to the as-yet-unknown person that actually wants to listen.

romance

Where are the Darcys and Rochesters of this world?
Unrealistic dreams of what romance should be, could be,
Are thrust upon us by countless movies, books, and songs.
Unrelenting, they give us a rosy-hued view of what we want,
But what is never likely to be for many, if not all of us.

These perfect male figures reside only in fantasy,
An unattainable dream for women to sigh about,
Only to realize in hopeless moments of reality,
That their poetical idea of perfect romance
Is likely to fall short in the real world.

What is stopping those dreams from becoming reality?
There has to be someone these characters are based upon.
Can they really only be fiction; a flawless projection
Of what some broken female author thought her life, love
Could, or should be in another, fantastical world?

Women waste their lives, throwing away chances
To be happy, not wanting to ‘settle’, in case that Percy Blakeney
Suddenly pops into her life, willing to whisk her away into
A world where all the ideas she’s had shoved upon her
Might actually be possible.

Maybe some women find these ‘flawless’ men.
Even if they do, is it really fair for expectations to be so high?
I have seen many good men just give up because they couldn’t
Be all that women seem to expect of them. Why can’t it be enough
For them to have a man that will care and provide?

We all want the airport scenes, the professions of undying love,
But maybe we need to take down our image of what makes
That perfect romantic lead in our lives, and see that it’s the very
Small, simple things; tiny moments in an average day,
That are the exquisite examples of actual true love.

aimless

Aimless wandering.
The same day, played out
Over and over again
With people and conversations
Changing, but the daily
Schedule never something new.

Where is the
Excitement, the joy
Life is supposed to bring?
Why is it that the things
You are supposed to do are
Only dull and meaningless?

If you touched upon the
Forbidden things,
Life could be
So much more wild,
Unrestricted.
As well as painful and damaging.

So you can try for patience,
Half-heartedly hoping
For that knight in
Shining armor to ride in and make
Your life euphoric and
Worthwhile.

But in the end, if he comes,
It would be exciting for a
Time, but slowly the monotony
Would peek out at you again
And engulf your so-called life,
Leaving only a husk in view.

winter

One scene as I watch the raging snowstorm –

A man walks through an endless sheet of white misery.
Thin sweater, worn shoes, empty pockets.
Tears of tragedy cling to his cheeks
As he searches for a hot meal, a warm bed, a kind heart.

I sip my cocoa.

you

How is it you understand
Me the way you do?
It’s like you know
Every inch of my heart
Every thought in my mind.
Yet you remain ignorant
Of how I feel about you.

Are you really unaware?
Do you know about the tingle
I experience
Every time I see you
Or think of you?
You are my world.

Maybe you are aware of this.
If so, stop the fallacy.
Help me understand
You as well
I need to
I want to
I love you.

ode to roller coasters

You cause chills, thrills, spills
Looping around, upside down.
Nausea, joy, money are
What you bring.
You receive no appreciation
For all the work you do
Lugging heavy cartloads of
People up hill, pushing down,
All on a hot, summer day.
Repeating this process every
Day, week, year
Yet you continue tirelessly
Up, down, around, through.
All the drinks spilled, vomit
Thrown and sweat dripped
Is patiently endured.
When will you get your reward?

roger

Roger trudged home from the lake in a dreadful mood. He was muddy, soaked, drenched, sopping, unclean, saturated, itchy, awash, filthy, waterlogged, and every other kind of wet and dirty you can possibly think of. He had spent the day IN the lake instead of on it, as he had planned. But who could have planned for that surprise rainstorm, and those mean bullies, and those awful horseflies that loved his sweet skin? In his hands he held his broken fishing pole and his empty tackle box; his small boat was in pieces back at the lakeshore. But he told himself that any strong seven-year-old boy, such as himself, would not cry. Oh, no, he would not cry. He was better than that. So, with tears welling in his eyes, but not falling down his cheeks, he walked in the back door and called to his Mommy.

silently

Silently.
As the moonlight falls
On the shadow of what was once a dream.
She awakes,
Distraught.
Everything is wrong.
There is nothing left
For her.
Someone must save her.
But who?
The wave of tears arrives
Drowning her in sorrow
When will the dawn come?
Not soon enough.

choice

She pulled down the shade as his car pulled away from her house. It had been so hard to let him go. At first, he would not leave, said he would rather die than abandon her. She knew that he wanted this chance so badly, and losing him was the consequence of the choice she had to make. And she had made it. That was final. She understood how important this opportunity was to him, it was the experience of a lifetime and she had to put away her own selfish feelings and live with the small glimmer of hope she had that she would see him again. If only she could.