Fireflies and Sunsets

A thought
Closed eyes and freedom
Art and writing
Oversized red crocs
On a splashed smooth dock
Clear water and bare feet
Dangling over the side

So it began
The poetry flowing out
The feelings running
Desperation on a flight
Bitterness and hope
Simple drawings behind emotion
Splatters of paint on a white canvas

Esteem unsteadiness
And problems and troubles
Part of growing up
Frustration
Anger over the unnecessary
Melancholy and drama queens
Little moments perching on fingers

Fireflies at sunset
Winking lights
Peekaboo from clasped fingers
My wet hair and a small smile
Foreign words,
Little lanterns strung along a string
Hanging from my mouth

New people rising from ashes
Chainsaw in the hedge maze
Carve their way out
Don’t romanticize it
It just happens sometimes
Give a hand with the mess left behind
Pick up the scraps and put them in storage.

Maybe I know myself
Better than I liked to think.
It’s okay to be sad sometimes.
Just don’t let it rule you.
Tears pour freely,
and they’re not always acid.
Just a stream flowing from a pond.

What is boredom
When you take it away?
It’s not interesting.
It’s just bare life,
Simple functions.
Same cycles with
varying attention spans.

Wearing black feels so good,
comfort in simplicity
unforced to innocence,
peace within one shade.
A blanket of shadows,
silken feathers and carpeted floors,
soft velvet smelling of perfume and pine needles.

My pockets are empty for them,
the betrayers and liars.
They have nothing to take
except my innocence.
I will laugh at them, sitting on a roof
legs dangling over the side,
singing to the stars.

When people say my name
at the end of a sentence,
a chord is struck
in my mind, whispering,
well, will you look at that.
And i ask, what?
and it just says, look.

I feel like the echos of all of the times
I’ve walked in this small room
have become so overlapped
they are like an invisible shell
wrapped around me to protect me
at night when dreams
are a hazy muddled mess

Little scratches
on a changing heart;
A wishful dancer with
a body better at running,
awkward shrugs.
Peeling wallpaper
and outgrown shoes.

I think I’m good
at giving hugs,
but I haven’t had
the chance to much lately.
Listening to music
in my own little trance,
nobody pays attention to the quiet black- clothed girl.

Lay sleeping
in the back of the subaru,
the soft crooning of old favorite songs
and the flashing lights of the highway in the darkness,
the grumbling of the car’s engine below us
and my parents murmuring in the front seats;
a comfortable symphony
of childhood road-trips past.

Time slips through fingers
like a strand of hair
My blank stares are normal
and I wish if someone
noticed a quirk of mine
they would tell me.
I’m just thinking thoughts again...