Out of Touch

Literally...I'm back "home" and i feel as if a part of me is missing. What a I missing? Have no idea. It's almost like I'm walking...walking in fog , but I'm not scared just curious. "Curiosity killed the cat you know," my conscious asks. This is true, but Satisfaction brought it back. And that's my plan. Figure out what I'm missing and go after it....maybe it'll work.

Quicksand

Raising your legs and lying on your back
keeps you from sinking in quicksand. Knowing
this will lnever help me I thought. As if
I'll ever need that. I'mm not going to places
that have any pitfalls like this.

No jungles or perilous terrains. No
swamps or dangerous lands. I thought I
was safe. But now here I am sinking into
this bottomless pit of goo. It's thick and rough
and pulls at my limbs as I try to break free.

No, don't struggle this hungry beast will only
swallow faster. I scream to myself as I
try to move, but only feel the tug of
my body sinking slowly. Attempt after
attempt things just get worse.

This snare is getting the best of me.
Raise your legs! Lay on your back then you
won't sink! But how do I do anything
when this quicksand is really just me.
Mistake after mistake it just keeps going.

Here I am struggling to breath to grab some
sure footing. But to no avail I feel myself
being pulled away from this person that's
sinking further and further into the snare
and now I'm gone in blackness.

I'm finally awake from this nightmare.

Sadistic?

Everyone rises and looks to the back.

It’s the bride they are all looking at of course.

Through all the roses and all the white

I have trouble being happy while in this seat.

Everyone sits thus the priest starts to monologue.

At least that’s what it feels like to me anyways.

It just keeps going and going and now I’ve lost

a year of my life here in this moment.

Yes, I sound angry but I’m not,

just agitated at sitting in this pew for hours.

Here and now isn’t the place I want to be.

I want to be far away from all the women

blubbering over how everything is

so beautiful. I’d rather be at the reception,

but that seems to be five years from now.

I don’t mean to sound so upset I’m just

agitated at sitting in this pew for hours.

A Half Made Dress

A half made dress filled with pins and pictures.

Pictures of women of friends and of sisters.

They are put in a way that only eyes can tell,

that there is more to it than just a dress.

Old photographs of women close together.

They are put in a fashion like plaid, like fabric.

Pins, needles aligned closely without interruption.

Close as if they were the girls in the pictures.

Put together to form a half made dress.

It is a dress not worn now a day it is,

a dress worn by these women, these gal pals.

In the pictures the women are all smiling.

A dress, a dress that is smiling back at me.

Tell Me

A prose to the old.

To the one who does not move as fast, please walk faster I’m in a hurry to get nowhere. To the one who forgets where their glasses are, please look in a mirror you’ll see they are right on your head. To the one that falls asleep midsentence, please tell me the rest of the story before dozing off. To the one who has a wrinkly old smile, tell me, was it happiness or sadness that caused your skin to wrinkle. To the one who has crow’s feet around their eyes, tell me are these marks from looking at so many of life’s problems and finding the answers? Tell me old one how is it you are still smarter even though your brains cells have begun to fade? Tell me the reason why I will walk slower, why I will forget the simplest of things? Why it is ok to take a nap right in the middle of a conversation? To the old, tell me, how is it you are so wise and patient and can still put up with me who is so young and naive? Tell me, will I feel as happy as you do when I am your age? A simple gesture, a smile. I’m going to be alright.

Rasins

Oh small insignificant raisin who cares
what you were before or how you looked.
The point is you’re a raisin now. A small,
shriveled, brown, wrinkly raisin. No one will
know if you were a green grape before or
any kind of grape for that matter.

Perhaps while still being a grape you were
destined to become a fancy wine that
all the glamorous people drink. Maybe
juice a step lower from wine, but still important.
Or just plain grapes that people munch on.

Alright that’s a lie, you come in a box.
You were always a small insignificant raisin.
Your life expectancy isn’t long now that,
you are dried up but still retain a somewhat bitter taste.
No longer do people consider you a grape.
You are a raisin, a small wrinkly raisin in my salad.