Shriveled Flowers

My eyes are slowly being opened
To the horrors of this life

Hidden way down deep
All this conflict, pain, and strife

I know not where it comes from
Nay I know not where it goes

Perhaps from broken dreams and wings
I frankly must suppose

I cannot tell the place where
Nor the hour of discovery

I first surmised that dead became
Our acts of chivalry

So long have we obsessed upon
Our secrets locked inside

Hounded to the very gates
Where safely we abide

Beyond all hope of triumphant escape,
One scarce believes the truth

Uncovering the heart with delicate touch
Strikes fear in the souls of youth

As well it should, this grip of terror
Is crying tears of blood

Served on a silver platter and spilling
Clear to the floor in a flood

The darkness chills the heart and leaves
Frosty fingers reaching for others

As tentative essences toe their way
This shadow, the warm light, it smothers

Sharply stunned to silence perhaps
Never to speak out once more

For some, they just won’t but others they can’t
Sleeping beneath a wood door

No ashes are scattered to be free in the wind
With the petals to fly up with them

Angels cry making rain to fall down
As earth sings a sweet silent hymn

Alone as alone could ever be
Unprotected and to wolves are fed

Crying out for comfort and truth
Or just wishing they were dead


i wrote the first half of this poem on my cell phone, by texting it to myself

The Corners of My Mind

A golden key unlocks the door to a room full of gently floating bubbles. The key is my pencil as it flows over a milky white sheet of paper, smoothly clicking into place. Sliding into the groove, it slowly turns the lock, opening the door of my mind. This is not to say that my mind is made of bubbles; no these bubbles are ideas fancily flying about, ready to pop. Walking into the room is like pulling on the most luxuriously soft slippers. I search for the perfect idea and latch onto it before it has a chance to fade, nourishing it and coaxing it to grow.
The entrance to the room is secret and few can find it. There is one window and one door. Light streams in through the window reflecting off a million tiny dust particles and warming the room. The bubbles pass into the room through the window when it is open and slowly die off when it is closed. An overstuffed, forest green, chair sits in the corner with a little matching foot rest. This is my favorite place in the whole world. I like to curl up in the chair like a cat taking full advantage of the warmth that comes in from the window.
Snuggling into my cozy corner, I am ready to begin. Each stroke of my pencil sends a shiver down my spine, and urges me on to the next. Adventure and romance hold me fascinated in another world. Then comedy has me chuckling to myself. Tears slide down my cheeks as my characters suffer through tragedy, yet I sigh in contentment at the happy ending. I bask in the room with the floating bubbles, every once in a while grabbing one and adding it to the words on the page. This is how I feel about writing.