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This blog is a simple place to share my writing. I hope any who read it enjoy and find meanings behind the words even I did not see. Please feel free to comment...

Standing Still

 
                                                       

 
                                                                 Standing Still

     Ann found herself in a mire, unable to move forward or go back.  Just one hour ago she had been home comfortably settling into her nightly routine. However, before Ann could switch on the TV her mother, who normally spent evenings unobtrusively nodding in her recliner, shuffled around the coffee table and brandished a handful of crumpled blue slips in her daughters face. The pallid little woman demanded all of her prescriptions be refilled immediately, even the multitude of sleeping agents she so rarely took. Always the diligent daughter Ann shrugged off the irregularity of the request and was ready to leave twenty minutes later. When she stopped at the hall table to confirm her purse contained everything necessary for a trip to town, she caught a glimpse of her mother once again nodding in her Lazy Boy. It had been nearly a year since her mother delivered the news of her terminal illness while sitting in that same dingy, mustard yellow chair. Ann was still unclear whether it was a sense of responsibility or guilt that prompted her to take on caring for the woman. Ann knew of no logical reason for her  to feel either toward her mother. Their relationship on the best days could only be described as amicable and had been polite but loveless since she was a child. Regardless here she was, her silver sedan pointed toward home and a pile of individually bagged prescriptions rattling along happily to the oldies on the radio. She had high hopes of making it in before the early news ended. However, as she rounded the first wide curve in the two lane just outside of town, she was stopped short by a twinkling string of brake lights marching around the next bend.

    As she rolled to a stop, adding her brake lights to the display, Ann didn’t feel upset or impatient. She rarely did in these kinds of situations. She was convinced those big city traffic jams on television, the ones with blaring horns and screaming, fist shaking people, were a result of some artist’s overactive imagination. What would be the point in getting all worked up? She eased her head back until she felt the squish of the headrest and sat silently considering the possibilities for the hold up. She dreamed up a few possible scenarios including, but not limited to, a slow moving piece of farm equipment, a stalled car, a mesmerized deer, or an Amish buggy, although the last, admittedly, was unlikely. Whatever the reason, it would only be a small delay, no need to get antsy. Ann stared out the drivers side window and dwelt for a time on the current goings on at home. It was not concern that her brief absence would cause difficulties that prompted her mind to wonder. A dinner of pork chops and potatoes was resting in the oven, though it would likely go untouched. Ann’s mother no longer ate solid food. Her husband Dan, citing her lack of culinary skill, ate out nearly every night. Her daughter had recently declared herself vegan. The family had engaged in a rather heated argument a few nights ago over her daughter's perceived obligation to bring pictures of mutilated farm animals to the dinner table. A habit she had taken up lately to, as she put it, “discourage their barbaric ways”. With a sigh, Ann refocused on the low berm just visible in the falling light. It was an ugly thing, spanning 30 yards on either side of the road and bare of all plant life except a yellowing buzz cut of grass. She had vague memories of wild flower growing in the grassy expanse. She assumed the county took care of those now.

    The garish red glare on Ann’s windshield dimmed as the driver ahead inched forward. She let off the break and allowed her car to roll with the slight dip of the road. Although originally calm and patient, Ann’s desire to have this night over was making her less sedate than usual. The late model Lincoln ahead crept to a stop approximately ten feet from where it had started. Ann continued to roll the last few feet and lightly pressed the brake pedal. The moment she came to a complete stop the music of the radio was replaced by a soft static drone. A glance in the rear view mirror showed nothing but a solid blare of white light. With no hope of easing back, she pushed a button on the console to put an end to the white noise and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. It’s just a little traffic jam, they will have it all sorted out soon. At least I am still in the nice warm car.  She had no idea who ‘they’ were but surely some higher authority would be intervening soon.  She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, then let her arms fall limp at her sides. Her watering eyes took in the view beyond the windshield. She drove this route nearly everyday, but it had a curtain strangeness when seen at a stand still. Looking beyond the stickered bumper of the Lincoln, Ann tried again to make out the more natural surroundings. Illuminated now only by the halogen glare of the closest cars the landscape resembled a poorly rendered watercolor. The gloomy shapes ran together to form dark lumps on the horizon. Closer at hand, just a few feet from the back tire of the parked Town Car, she could just make out the distinct shape of what was most likely roadkill. It was hard to tell exactly what kind of animal it was, something moderate in size and round, or perhaps small and bloated. Ann stared at the dark mound until her eyes began to sting. She was feverishly watching for the slightest movement from the dead thing while simultaneously terrified it would happen. Ann hated dead things and suffering, but she hated the idea of having to deal with them even more.

    Anny the scaredy. The singsong voice of her childhood friend came back to her so suddenly it took a moment for her mind to retrieve the context. Becky and Ann grew up next door to each other, the only kids in a cul de sac full of retirees. They couldn’t have been more than ten years old when Becky had first christened her with that nickname. On her daily bike through the neighborhood Becky discovered a dead squirrel in Mrs.Cahill’s yard. She stood under a well manicured Ash tree unceremoniously poking its limp body with a stick and teasing Ann for being too afraid to leave the sidewalk. It wasn’t fear of the dead thing that kept Ann rooted there in the hot sun. It was the fear that it wasn’t a dead thing. What if it was laying there in pain, unable to move, barely breathing, while Becky inflicted more pain? She wasn’t moved to help the poor creature though. It was simply that difficult situations were much easier to ignore when they weren’t shoved under your nose. Even as a young girl, Ann knew that ignoring troublesome things was the simplest path to a happiness.

    She shook her head as she refocused on her grown up hands gripping the steering wheel. What a silly thing to be thinking about. The unsettled events of the evening were agitating Ann’s thoughts. She never lingered on the little things. Although, in this case, she knew why Becky had so easily come to her mind. Her own daughter, Kara, was just a few weeks short of her tenth birthday and reminded her a great deal of Becky: bold, confident, and cruel. She was sure that like Becky, who had only been Ann’s friend by default, Kara only spoke to her mother because she wanted an allowance. It was a somber thought and it did nothing to bolster her waning attitude, neither did the motionless Town Car dominating her line of sight.

    Although it was less than ten feet away, Ann had avoided directly surveying the Lincoln until now. It was a beastly looking thing, all squares and straight lines, the bumper protruding out like a bad under bite. It looked too much like a machine. Ann preferred a sleeker look, smooth surfaces, rounded edges, bubbly light covers. The Lincoln’s appearance wasn’t improved by the variety of stickers covering the tail end. Ann lost herself for a while reading them. There was the usual fare of SAVE THE RAINFOREST, MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, and Proud Parent of …, but scattered among them were various political stickers promoting a myriad of candidates and ideologies. She scanned the names and cleverly worded tag lines highlighted against dramatic shades of blue, red, or green. She didn’t recognize any of them. Ann didn’t care much for politics or causes and such. Whenever those stories came up on the news or in the paper, her attention would wonder until something more to her liking came along, most likely a human interest story involving pets or babies. Her husband said she just didn’t have the head for those kind of things but Ann knew better. When she was young, before she met him or had a child, she attended a mid-size university an hour from her hometown. Ann involved herself in various organizations and causes, some laden with political undertones all of which she was able to appreciate. Those were different times, a different life, a different Ann. Money became tight for her parents and she was forced to drop out after a year. It was the best thing for her really. She had a home now and important responsibilities, at least that is how she always rationalized the failure. For the first time in years and most likely aroused by the candid musings of this evening, Ann recalled the bitter disappointment of having to abandon her dreams. How had she ever forgotten that? Why didn’t I ever...

     Movement. Movement directly ahead of Ann roused her from the troublesome pondering, though a shadow of lacking lingered on her mind. The Lincoln was a few car lengths away now and moving at a good clip. Ann let off the break and pressed the gas. Her legs, not used to such quick movements after the long sit, felt heavy. This resulted in a mashing rather than pressing of the gas pedal. She raced forward, headed straight for the long line of cars now making its way around the next bend. By the time she slowed and regained her place in the steadily moving line she was quite shaken. Ahead she saw lights bouncing off the embankment and surrounding trees. They were not the blue/red alterations of emergency lights though, more yellowish-orange. As Ann finally pulled around the bend, she located the source of the light show. Slowly making its way to the opposite side of the roadway was a large, white, and rather rusty tow truck.

     The truck’s bank of turning lights diverted Ann’s attention so it was a few seconds before she fully took in the scene she was approaching. To her right and slightly below her was a red minivan. It had come to a rest twenty yards from the road. The light gravel that marked the thin strip between roadway and grass had been striped away and two distinct strips of mud made it possible to follow the vans assent into the grass. The van itself looked mostly unscathed despite its odd parking situation that is until she pulled level and saw the missing nose. The crumpled hood partially obscured the broken windshield and smoke spouted from the wheel wells. The sliding door facing the road was open and the interior appeared mercifully empty.

     The line of cars slowed to a crawl as drivers and passengers craned necks to appraise the devastation. As she crept past the van wreckage, two other cars came into view. One, obviously the main cause for the north bound traffic jam, was dangling from the large hook of the tow truck now parked on the south side berm. It was a smallish foreign thing, the passenger side buckled from a heavy impact. A midsize sedan lay on it’s side across the southbound lane blocking a line of cars in that direction. The nose of the sedan pointed towards Ann’s car. The lights of the motorcade did little to illuminate the area directly around the fallen car. Ann couldn’t tell if it was black or a dark shade of blue or green. She stared at the car so long, and with such intensity, that she had to pound her break pedal when she realized the Lincoln had again come to a complete stop. Her insides burned and her limbs shivered. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the wheel. Without opening her eyes, she gripped the cool leather of the gear shift and placed the car in neutral. The road held a steady decline from here for more than a mile. She could ride the slope past the accident scene and not have to worry about getting froggy and rear ending the Lincoln. She no longer trusted her jerky limbs. She opened her eyes and turned her head back to the toppled car now directly across from her side window and no more than twenty feet away.

     It was green, dark green and resting on it side facing her. The headlights of the SUV behind her brightened a wider stretch of the roadway than most of the others. The tumbled cars own headlights were extinguished. Ann concluded the engine must have failed in the accident because both lights and covers were still intact. The only visible damage was a flat front tire, although Ann was sure the driver’s side on which the car now rested must have been a mess. Amazingly, the windshield had survived the crash. She silently applauded the ingenuity of the car maker and prayed her car was done as well. She narrowed her eyes to better admire the unbroken windshield. Not even a scratch, she thought. She looked beyond the windshield, into the interior of the car. Her breath caught in terror and her heart began to race anew. Ann stared. She stared with such force and concentration her head began to throb, but she couldn’t look away.

     There was someone still tethered to the drivers seat, a woman, her long hair spread over her face and just brushing the pavement that now filled the drivers side window. The woman’s right arm hung limp across her chest. A red stain spread over her shoulder and collarbone down to her right breast. Ann searched the body desperately with her eyes, but there was no way to tell if the woman was alive. It was too dark to see the subtle signs of breathing. Where were the rescue vehicles, the police cars? Why had no one checked this car? She snapped her eyes to the tow truck still idling on the far shoulder. Through the dingy back glass of the cab she could just make out the mashed silhouette of a large group of people. She presumed these were the owners of the van and compact, but hadn’t they realized no one had materialized from the other car. One of the cars ahead of her must have seen the trapped woman when they passed. Her eyes found the Lincoln just in time to see its brake lights diminish, the line was moving  again. Ann squared her shoulders. What else can I do, she thought.  She placed her hand on the gear shift.

Through the Dark

                                                     

                                                               Through the Dark
     Arin woke to the sound of her husband snoring, God that irritated her. Even in his sleep he could get on her nerves. She suppressed the urge to scream at him and instead glared at the black ceiling waiting for her eyes to adjust. Lying alone in the silent room she did not know the time, but the dark had a weight of deep night, three or four AM. After a few minutes the strange stalactite shapes of the plaster became clear, so did the awareness sleep would not come again tonight.

    She snuggled with thoughts of her youth, when it was customary for her to sleep well into the afternoon. Now, five hours slumber seemed a fantasy. A coy smiled played across her lips. She wasn’t that ancient – adolescence was not that long ago. To be honest, 31 didn’t feel much different than 21. She had been graced with her mother’s youthful face and, besides a few extra pounds, she had remained the same over the years. The main features of the show had certainly remained the same: questions, confusion, discontentment, and a pleasurable sense of exploration…no, nothing had changed.

    A major part of her current discontentment was the snoring mass next to her, which lay in a peaceful stagnation she could not achieve. What was she doing here? Thoughtful exploration into her own condition had filled many a sleepless night and she knew a youthful face was not the only thing inherited from her mother. Her earliest memories were of that pure woman’s quiet, passive voice, peaceful, ever smiling face and rustic, old fashion style. Unfortunately, with old fashion styles come old fashion ideas.  Stand behind your man was a running theme of her childhood. In Arin’s teens the Spice Girls had a hand in tearing some of these notions apart, but the pieces remained and occasionally surfaced in the most unexpected ways, like in an overwhelming desire to be a married woman. Her mother was gone now, but she still had some of her old dresses, and they fit very well. Her ideas about self and womanhood had been deeply affected again by her constant desire to know all the facts. Of course seeing opportunities through glass ceilings and wrestling with Woolf’s “Night and Day” had not lessened the stress of an already overtaxed, overly toxic, underappreciated life, only given new reasons for and means of appraisal. Is it any wonder sleep was hard to come by?
“I need a cigarette.” The low utterance hung in the coagulated dark. It seemed to reverberate off the heavy oak furniture of the bedroom. She stiffly departed the bed and traversed a way around the space. In her mind she held a vivid picture of the finely carved, rich brown headboard and matching side table and chest of draws. The interior of her home was satisfyingly lovely, even if it was too dark to see it now.  She gradually made her way into the gloom of the hall.

    The diffused light of the street lamp outside only peeked passed the boundary of the door, making the walk into the inner hall one of ever deepening darkness. She did not bother to turn on the light above her; it had been broken for what seemed like forever. She had requested her husband fix it, but he had never found the time. He rarely traversed the dark of night, what need did he have of this light? She had found she was too afraid to climb the ladder and provide her own light. When he wakes she would have to remind him again.

    Her husband was a good man; it was reality and her own identity that she questioned. No real answers had ever come. Maybe she did not know what love was. Perhaps this mundane, co-ownership of emotion called marriage was love. Possibly she had seen too many of Walt’s happy endings to separate reality from make believe. Let’s face it, she was no Cinderella and prince charming was not galloping his way through the night. Maybe she should count her lucky stars she had a good man and continue on with life or maybe she should man up and leave. She knew neither would happen today, but at least there was a choice and she was free to make it. The solemn recognition of a time when no choices were to be had made her thankful to women she could not name for waging war in the name of woman kind. With choices came responsibility…and freedom.
Hand and hand with her contemplations she slowly descended the stairs; the flood of dim lamp light from the living room window was like the light of day after the blackness from which she had come. She stood for a moment to enjoy the blanket of silence and allowed her mind to lose its focus. There were times when she felt selfish allowing her own petty needs to consume her. She wasn’t starving or homeless, beaten or used. With a world so full of injustice, pollution and politics, what right did she have to lose sleep over singular discontentment? But then, she had as much hope of changing the world as she did her own personal discomforts, so did it matter what she lost sleep over? It seemed both her and Mother Earth were predestine to live corrupted. With a heavy sigh she took a step into the room which now seemed as dimly lit as it truly was.

    She traversed the room by the dim light and perched on the edge of the recliner. She pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table beside her and lit it with ease. As she watched the glowing embers come to life with each inhalation, she speculated how she must look, illuminated by the small fluctuating orange glow, obscured by a haze of smoke lightened by a filtered silvery glow. Hitchcock came to mind.

    An ever expanding education had offered a wonderful chance for self-exploration. Intimate exploration could be as terrifying as climbing Everest, but the prize for her was indescribable. Even with the constant uncertainty surrounding her, she was solidifying her identity. She was coming into focus. So far she liked what she saw and looked forward to what she sensed ahead. She liked who she was becoming. She had control of her mind and the knowledge she gained was her own. Like the comfort of a good friend in times of need, her self-knowledge was an island in rough seas.

    …she reached above her and turned on the light.

A "New" Fairy Tale

                                                        

                                                                 Thumbelina

    Once upon a time in a lovely garden in the suburbs of Pittsburg there lived a race of very small people. These tiny folks loved to tend the garden and watch the big people lumber by. In the very heart of the garden lived Thumbelina. Thumbelina was an intelligent, simple girl with short dark hair and friendly eyes.  She had grown up with a loving mother and father and after she finished grammar school with the rest of the children she attended the little people college. She now enjoyed an independent, successful life in a charming flat under a blue rhododendron bush. She managed a prosperous business making comfy walnut shell beds for the locals. But Thumbelina was facing a problem; it was tradition for her people to marry the toads from the pond across the street, to promote stronger community ties, and Thumbelina had no desire to marry a toad or anyone at all for that matter.

    One day a beautiful mature toad came to Thumbelina’s door. The toad’s son had noticed Thumbelina at the bed store and wanted to marry her right away. Mother toad had come to make the wedding plans. Bright Thumbelina just could not understand why no one could see her ways were best and told mother toad that she did not wish to marry her son or anyone else for that matter, but mother toad would hear none of this. The wedding date was set for the next week. Thumbelina wished everyone could be as educated as her, she felt sorry for the unreasonable people of the garden and pond. The traditions they clung to were just silly. Seeing the fruitlessness of trying to reason with mother toad, or anyone in her own family, resourceful Thumbelina decided it was time for her to break away from the silly old traditions of her people. She packed up some clothes, seeds of her favorite flowers and herbs, and a few special treasures including a lovely ring that was a gift from her father and walked right down the sidewalk and out of sight.

Thumbelina traveled the block all summer. She saw the towering homes and businesses and even learned the ways of the big people. Thumbelina missed the garden but she was excited by the new experiences traveling provided her. When winter came she found a flower box attached to a cheery brownstone and settled down in the remnants of flowers and moss that had grown there. She had no problem caring for herself as she had a wonderful talent for growing and gathering her own food and, although she could not carry a tune, the birds loved her kindness and whit and taught her how to weave a warm nest to keep her safe in the worst weather. Thumbelina was sitting on her mossy porch one chilly November morning when she saw a very small, shivering mouse stagger by. The mouse looked cold and hungry so kind Thumbelina invited her inside. The mouse stayed with Thumbelina in her warm flower box all winter long.

Thumbelina enjoyed the mouse’s company, but when spring came the mouse began to hassle Thumbelina about getting married. You see in the mouse community it was tradition for the young women to marry the moles from the park, to ensure plentiful property for the rodent population. Well Thumbelina had no desire to marry a mole, or anyone else for that matter, but the mouse was very persistent. The mouse found a nice eligible bachelor mole and brought him over for dinner. Thumbelina laughed at her friend and the guest she had brought and again wished everyone could be as smart as she was. She just could not understand all these silly old traditions and the people that still followed them. Thumbelina decided it was time for her to continue her journey. She packed a bag with some clothes, a few seeds of new flowers and herbs she had discovered, and a few special treasures including the lovely ring her father had given her and  the notes she had taken on the ways of the big people, and marched down to the local bird-port (where you could catch a pigeon to almost anywhere). When the attendant asked for a desired destination, Thumbelina said, “anywhere warm and without silly old traditions.” She was given a ticket and hopped on the 6:30 flight.
Thumbelina was sad and thoughtful as the pigeon took her further from her home. She missed her family and friends and wished very much that everyone could just be like her and forget their old and unreasonable ways. The pigeon assigned to fly Thumbelina to her new home saw her tears and asked if there was anything he could do to help. “No,” said Thumbelina, “I just want to go somewhere beautiful where everyone thinks like me and there are no silly old traditions.”

“I see,” said the wise old pigeon. And wise he was for he had been flying people to and from the bird-port for many, many years and always took the time to learn a little about each of them. “Why,” he asked Thumbelina, “is it that you wish everyone to think like you?”

Thumbelina said right away, “because my way is the best and smartest way of course.”

The pigeon thought about this for a moment and then asked her, “and do the people who hold onto these silly old traditions think their way is the best and smartest?”

“Well, I don’t know” answered Thumbelina, “I suppose they do, yes.”

“Tell me,” said the pigeon, “do these people want you to give up your ways and act the way they see is best?”

“Yes!” replied Thumbelina, “and that is why they are so unreasonable and I want to find a new home.”

The pigeon was quiet for some time and finally he addressed Thumbelina again, “Do you think my dear Thumbelina that all these people with silly old traditions think your new ideas are just as silly?” Before Thumbelina could answer the pigeon went on, “I imagine they do, and do you think Thumbelina that anyone is going to change your mind about your new ideas by telling you that they are silly or laughing at them or telling you they are unreasonable?” Thumbelina did not know what to think, she knew the answer to the wise old pigeon’s question but she was ashamed of how she had treated her friends and family. The pigeon knew this and gently ask one more question of Thumbelina, “What could your friends and family do to help you be happy?”

Thumbelina watched the buildings and fields fly by as she thought about his question and finally she said, “They could try and understand.” The pigeon smiled. 

The wise old pigeon dropped Thumbelina in a flowing field of yellow and blue wildflowers. Everywhere she looked there were small fairy people fluttering from flower to flower like bright jewels in the sun. Thumbelina asked a lot of questions about the people’s beliefs and ideas and learned they had no tradition about marring what so ever. This delighted Thumbelina as she had no desire to marry a fairy person, or anyone else for that matter. But what the pigeon had said to Thumbelina continued to weigh on her mind. She loved the field and the fairy people but she felt she still had things to do. So Thumbelina packed a bag with some clothes, some wild flower seeds, and a few special treasures including the lovely ring her father had given her, her notes on the ways of the big people and a wonderful book her friend the pigeon had given her about the different ways and traditions of all the people the wise pigeon had met.

The first thing Thumbelina did when she got back to the garden was visit mother toad. She explained to her that she did not wish to marry her son because she had her own, new ideas and she was very sorry for not trying to understand mother toads ways. Mother toad explained to Thumbelina that she had had no choice in the man she married and because that had been fine with her she thought it must be fine with Thumbelina too. Thumbelina gave mother toad her book about a different ways of all the people the pigeon had met to help her understand on why being free and having her own ideas was so important to her. When Thumbelina departed again both her and mother toad were able to understand, if not agree with, each others ideas.

    Next Thumbelina visited her old flowerbox outside the cheery brownstone. There she found her friend the mouse and the handsome mole sitting down to dinner. Thumbelina apologized for laughing at their ways and not trying to understand their traditions. She explained that she did not want to follow the traditions of the garden or the park because it was important to her to be free. She told them her ideas on marring for love and not just to make their community happy. The mole was very pleased with what he had been told; as it turns out he was very in love with his neighbor moles daughter. Thumbelina was so happy for the mole that she gave him the lovely ring that her father had given her. He ran from the flowerbox with his new found knowledge and a beautiful engagement ring determined to ask his neighbor to marry.

 Thumbelina then returned to the field of wildflower and her home with the fairy people. To her surprise she quickly discovered that the fairy people were not real fairies at all; they had been capturing the local butterflies and stealing their wings. Thumbelina wanted to do something about this horrible practice but knew from all that she had learned that she must try to understand the fairies and the butterflies before she could hope to help them. So she worked hard to learn the ways of the inhabitants of the field and she studied her notes on the ways and laws of the big people and ran for a political office. After she was appointed head of the fairy relations office Thumbelina wrote and bill for fair treatment of butterflies and set up funding to discover a way the little people of the field could manufacture their own wings. The butterflies were released and, thanks to Thumbelina, all the inhabitants of the field rejoiced in their new found peace. Thumbelina moved up the political latter quickly and in no time she was the president of the United Fairies of the Field. Everyone in the field now works merrily together. 

Sanctuary

                                                                   Sanctuary
There are moments I know the immensity of my emotion will overflow the weak vessel that is me, like a pot boiling over, compression about to burst. Like the cigarette in my hand, it will slowly burn me up and spill the ashes to the floor. It feels alive in me, raging and rolling, pushing and straining, begging to be let free. A sea shaded in reds, blues, black and white never together but always their own. Soul, spirit, life, the decision of words is the individual’s. I have never found the proper words for it. All my words seem forced, I seem forced.

I long for what I do not know, and what I do. Times past, I was glad to see them fade and now long to experience them again. Who I was is but a shadow on the moon, always present but forever out of reach, who I am is dew in the early morning of spring, beautiful, cold and smothering.

I have shattered myself with choices. I see beauty in so few. Can love mean so much and so little? My body is like thin paper endeavoring to hold back the tide. How worthless my flesh seems when I feel the crux inside me trying to step out. I am young and always fighting, he is haggard and steadfast. Thought is my solace and my knife. In the words of my mind I take my sanctuary as within a lovers embrace. I clasp them before me, a shining white shield. I stand tall and majestic. Everything around me is marred with anger, longing and regret but my words are my own.

I long for the passion of a minds embrace. A minds embrace; someone to share my words. My words form my entity, my entirety. I am isolated with those who the world would say know me. No one shares my mind; no one has seen the raging sea inside me. How great is my desire to be known, how simple a thing it seems. I have no plan to survive without someone understanding my essence, my core. What it must be like to die truly unknown.

Searching

Searching


I looked it up in the dictionary, this thing love
I found attraction, desire and admiration there
But the emotion I feel for you is too far above
For any of these tedious words to compare

So I looked it up in a poem, this thing devotion
I found heart and soul, hope, truth and certainty
And Mr. Frost said it was more than the shore to the ocean
But my devotion to you is more than just inevitability

Still I searched to define my longing with some symbol
Shakespeare told me it was a course never to run smooth
And in your embrace it is true, I feel I will melt away or crumble
But even this is not a fit portrait of the way my heart moves

So I sought in the place I knew my loyal heart was bound
I touched your sweet face and looked there in your eyes
In them the knowledge I had been searching for was finally found
Awareness that I will never again know the pain of goodbye