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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| fire, ice, cloudsi know that there's a danger in gazing at the sun, hyper-focusing on my lack of energy. i'm solar-powered and tired of the sun. the heat lies to my bones ... promising warmth where chill has resided. and yet there are falcons in the windows, friends on the phone, and songs stirring in my soul. sometimes all i can do is take another monotonous half-step and hope for something beyond the middle.
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| confusion i feek disconnected, lonely, and disappointed because i don't know how to gauge or live up to my potential.
i've been scrambling so long that i've forgotten the now-ancient hangout techniques of social engagement.
i don't remember how to offer or share my life in recommended daily allowances.
and the sudden loss of focus has left me grieving (the most mundane of tasks).
these ideas seem like churning, electron droplets in microscopic buckets
(each bucket clearly labeled and filed away forever).
i'm overwhelmed by unchaperoned thoughts.
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| poison: the wella bucket is the way out
(bearing burdens from here and now).
a length of rope is the prophet
(speaking stories long-forgotten).
beckoning voices are distant .. fond ..
ever over
the next hill, round
the next curve.
just turn the corner and all will be well.
 oh well. | | |
| my legs plead while ploddingmy legs plead while plodding
clogging shoes with careful steps.
my shoulders are overextended thoughts
tracing ribbons of levers pulled on my back-canvas.
my hands are empty and filling my pockets,
but i promote my fingers to embrace the rain.
my head sags with wrinkled intentions.
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| posture medici found a small image floating around with flowers:
the eyes of a small child
with the incessant hope of acceptance.
something was missing ...
perhaps expectation diminished after birth
(with unacknowledged grief held in the fetal position).
it is us that require rebirth ...
baptizing our eyes in the wake of mourning.
it will take our whole lives to realize with whom we belong.
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