Whisky Flames

Cold whisky in hand
My fingertips are aching
The ice cubes slowly melting
The clink against the short ribbed rock glass
Cystal seems to keep everything cool
Indian style crosslegged staring into the fire pit that I keep feeding with branches from the backyard
Keep It from smoking
It burns my eyes
What’s burning more is the image of you
Feed the fire
Keep it aflame
Burning in my brain
Eyes fixed on the orange and yellow flames
I switch to wine and the image
of you changes
My face close to the flame stays toasty
My lips still stay cold
The wine leaking through and coating my palate with a woody flavored red purple stain
on my teeth
It’s just me and the glass in my hand
And the flame with the image of you smoking in the distance
Whisping through the air
Just an arms reach away as the wind carries you away

Breathe for Me

It’s so easy to blow out a flame
It’s so simple to dust ashes the ashes that remain
It’s effortless to sit and watch the embers sizzle and burn
They crackle and glow
Open to touch
The red glimmer appealing to the eye
A dangerous beauty
A flick of a match
Everything can start again
A little oxygen and the fire starts
Breathe for me
Start the glow in my chest
A burning heart
Flickering
Steady
Ablaze

I Am Sputtering

Absentmindedly staring at the flame
Watching the fire dance around a charred log soaked in lighter fluid
A crackle and burst of embers here and there
The little glowing specks leap from the pit to freedom
A cold hard ground
The chilled wood deck
Sputters to nothing
As soon as it’s out
The warmth is gone
A tired fire
I keep turning the log to light a better side
Drench it in fluid to watch it go aflame
It only lasts so long
Until once again
I go cold…

I Beg You To Burn With Me

The smoke billows and billows
The cool breeze carrying it away
I keep trying to light you
But you refuse to burn
Your embers have gone cold
Charred inside and out
How many more times can I pour the fluid to light you again?
Stoke the fire
Ask it to burn
Burn bright and warm me again
I beg of you

trapped in a snowglobe

Merging the ballerina on the jewelry box with the little person in the snow globe, this is me. Dancing to my own beat, twirling in my own little circle, but not going anywhere. The snow is falling all around me, a fresh coat every day. A little song to cheer me up and wind my gears. But as soon as the fake little flurries settle to the plastic earth around me, my globe is tipped upside down and shaken up. Passed from one hand to another, controlled for how long I twirl and when I twirl. Controlled with who holds my globe and marvels at it. How I feel bad for the little pocket of air that is trapped at the tippy top of my see- through sphere. It bobs from one side of the sphere to the other and slides back and forth over the surface that it is allowed to be close to. It has the ability to see the edge of things and get close to translucent freedom. But the glass barrier keeps us all in. My little bit of snow, the water that surrounds me and I’m stuck on this perch twirling in endless controlled circles. I hope one day someone drops my globe and lets it shatter to the hard floor. I’ll gather all my pieces, sweep up my fake white flurries and twirl into another open sphere. But for now, I’m trapped in a snow globe on display for all my mistakes and made to do as my handlers want of me, the same little twirling circle, on the same gears wound by them that hold the key to my freedom from this glass hell. 

not allowed to be an adult

I am the age of an adult,

but I live at home.

I have my personal things,

but you stole my printed memories.

I have free will,

but you decide what I should and shouldn’t keep.

I have my few friends,

but only a few you approve of.

I can go where I want and when I want,

but not without questions and proof.

I know I have made mistakes,

but now you turn me into a child.

Surveillance like 1984,

laws like the police,

control like the government,

I am trapped with no where to go.

I cannot leave on my own.

An endless cycle.

I have no life besides what you want me to do.

This isn’t easy.

I know,

it won’t ever be easy to do what is right.

I want the helping hand,

but the ability to do it on my own without

the micromanagement.

Not allowed to feel.

It’s always wrong.

I don’t know who I am.

I know who I want to be.

But all your new pressure and disappointment is killing me.

This is only the beginning.

Appreciative but resentful.

I cannot help these things that are coursing through me.

Trading one form of control for another.

When will I ever be able to live a day without the constant need

to please,

to prove,

to make- up for,

the gain understanding,

to show truth?

This is what it’s like to be an adult??

Hell.

 

Good Consideration

She will sell houses to happy
couples to new
families to first
beginnings. She studies to make others
happy and help them start their own
lives. She will accept valuable consideration in her
contracts. In the meeting of minds she will have sellers and
buyers sign on the dotted line. But what she really yearns for is
good consideration. A promise that can’t be measured in terms
of counted money. Much rather, love and affection. Not just anyone can
sign on her dotted line. She gave the pen to him and he started
with the first few curves in the first letters of his name. The pen is still laying on the desk, the line is partially written on. She just needs the payment.

We Built a Home

If it wasn’t for her, this house would probably rot;
this house that has been made into a home. A home
that has been abandoned by you. Abandoned
arms that have been left open, the pillows falling
apart at the seams. We laughed and bickered that there
are too many pillows. But yet, there was no enough comfort to keep
you here. No amount of pictures to suffice the happy memories that you
have wanted to erase and leave behind. No amount of writing kept in
to revisit past conversations that mean worlds to her.
She lights up the rooms with “twinkles” just to keep the darkness
out of her head and light the way home to her.
She sprays the air with the scents that bring you home to her nose and keep you in her flashbacks of true time.
This home is rotting and you have the hammer and nails to fix it. There are holes in the ground
of her heart. There are rips in the
pieces of her soul. This house, this home
can still be a home. Will you come
home to her or will you
abandon this house we built with our hands and our hearts in the foundation?

Don’t Be True

I swear this is all a nightmare.
I know what I’ve seen and experienced and none of it adds up.
I keep hearing all these things and I want to deny all of it.
It’s a sham, it’s rumors, it’s lies.
Let’s just sweep it under the rug because that’s not the person I know.
I can’t take this reality that keeps coming crashing down on me.
It’s not fair.
I want to wake up in the morning and it all be back to normal.
All of it should be a lie.
All of it can’t be true.
Please don’t be true.
Don’t be true.
Be true to me.

Where’s My Knight?

You were my knight in shining armor…
Now who will help me slay my dragons and ward off evil robbers of my life,
robbing me of love and value?
Who will rescue me of my fears and tell me to jump across the lava of deceit flowing through my life?
Who will pick me up after I’ve tripped and fallen down from my evening gown of failure?
Who will slice the heads off the other men that try and steal me away from my successes?
Who will teach me to punch and defend myself when my knight is away temporarily on another journey?
Who will hold my hand when I
simply
can’t
handle
you no longer being here?…