We try our hardest to be free,
Free from expectations,
Free of the chains of time,
Free of the things that weigh us down,
From the things that make us, human,
Even the bodies we are locked in.
We do everything we can to tell ourselves we are,
Because nothing can convince us,
Though we won’t admit it.
We can’t comprehend the idea that we are already free,
Because to so so we would have to admit
To full surrender.
I won’t stay quiet forever,
I’m sick of going silently insane,
Not saying a word
For the sake of everyone but me.
Screaming on the inside
At all the fake around me,
Can none of you see it?
Pretty on the outside,
But rotten to the core,
Stop trying to deceive me,
And just pick one already.
Put down the facade
And show me something real.
No time to put on shoes,
from the kitchen with a handful of glasses to catch the rain,
back and forth she went,
till the cupboard was emptied of everything of use,
and the driveway was scattered with glasses half full,
tears came down her face
as she watched the raindrops hit the ground,
trying to smile she looked up at the sky,
begging it not to cry,
she couldn’t understand what had made it so upset.
“Honey, what’s the matter?”
“The sky is crying mommy, and I couldn’t catch it’s tears.”
“But that’s what the ground is for,
it catches all the tears that the clouds cry,
and it grows flowers to make the sky happy again.”
Just a little story for a rainy day…take of it what you will, hopefully it made you smile a little.
Photo Credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/92146676@N04/32130454131/”>SoePhotos</a> Flickr via <a href=”http://compfight.com”>Compfight</a> <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/help/general/#147″>cc</a>
I hate the things that I don’t say,
the lost goodbyes,
and the blank pages,
or the empty silence
when there’s something left to say,
you came to me and wanted to know
why I always waited
to speak before
I was invited
the logic of waiting,
is not an easy one to reason,
I’m not sure that even I
can read it’s mind
much less my own,
so I’ll just keep asking the same one
as if it didn’t make sense
They sit there,
Their black silhouettes painting a picture
Against the morning sky,
Of silent music written in the power lines,
Patiently waiting for no one
But the one who writes the melody,
Giving them a reason to sing.
I’ve never been good at remembering birthdays,
or what we talked about two minutes ago,
But I swear,
I’ll remember your favorite song
till the day I die,
history is lost on me,
but I’ll remember the story you told me two years ago that made you smile,
I’ll forget your name the first five times I meet you,
but that’s only because I’m busy memorizing the color of your eyes and how they light up when you laugh,
class after class of memorized facts,
but i still remember everything you’ve ever said to me,
I remember everything important,
I remember you,
if I’m forgetting it’s because I’m busy remembering.
It’s like picking Rose petals,
Plucking promises I don’t know how to keep,
and trusting in all the wrong things.
Here take this,
No I’ve got it,
I’ll just take care of this one,
It’s a never ending field of flowers,
You’d think I’d learn my lesson,
There’s just one flaw with my own logic,
All petals picked
By my own hand eventually die anyway.
She kept her secrets hidden,
Deep beneath the colors
painted on her canvas,
If you looked closely,
sometimes you could see,
fleeting traces of subtle whispers,
fading in with the bigger picture,
And out of inattentive sight. -t.r.p.
I let my imagination run away just to see where it would go,
While my heart tried to convince me to let the evil little bugger go,
(Shut up, I know I should have listened)
but imagination yanked the string of curiosity further around me and my heart,
My mind not too happy it was forced along for the ride,
Clearing a path with me in tow,
Through familiar, uncharted territory,
Going places I sometimes wished to stay,
In happy memories,
Some not yet even true,
Where the lines between world’s like to get my vision drunk,
For a moment I convince myself to make the most beautiful of homes there,
Until something falls from high above,
(Stupid mind, Stop throwing things),
and knocks me back around,
To tell me that what my imagination thinks it wants,
Isn’t always good enough.
I don’t typically write things then rewrite them, let alone rewrite them again, then again. I normally won’t put them down till I am happy with them in my mind. But that hasn’t been the case recently, I’ve been filling pages with the same things over and over trying to get them right, as stupid as this sounds…..it’s kind of a new annoying feeling for me.