Bluebird

A bluebird flying just above the road,
Wiping tears from the windows to her soul.
Soon, she will soar, forever free to roam.

The sound from her throat, a sorrowful ode,
She hacks up a cloud, dark and black as coal,
The bluebird flying just above the road.

She looks weary as her body corrodes.
Soon she will swallow the seed of the pistol.
Then, she will soar, forever free to roam.

Archaic joints ache as they creak and groan,
The problems of time, out of her control,
My bluebird flying just above the road.

On the journey up, a goodbye she crowed.
At the gates of heaven, she paid the toll.
Now, she will soar, forever free to roam.

I’ll miss you, bluebird; together we strode.
We started so young, and you’ve grown so old,
My bluebird flying just above the road,
Now, she will soar, forever free to roam.

Anxiety

A tightness holds my throat,
Tightly, unfaltering.
Air will not break through
Though I gasp and struggle
With every ounce of strength
I have left.
My muscles spasm
And my limbs shake
As the blood runs cold
Beneath my skin.
Screams will not erupt
From the frigid chasms
Deep inside me
Where they echo off the walls
Endlessly.
My eyes burn
With un-shed tears
As the voice in my head
Bellows,
Voicing fears,
And insecurities.
I squeeze my eyes shut,
Clamping my hands
Firmly over my ears,
Curling into myself,
Shaking my head
As if the words are not true.
But I know they are.
The thought stings
At the back of neck
Like electricity
Shooting through me.
I’m squeezing the air from my lungs
As if it is poisonous,
Still while trying to breath,
Gasping, heaving, choking.
How long have I been here?
How long will I remain?
When something breaks through
All the glass of the fortress
I’ve locked myself away in.
A warm hand at my back
Pulls me closer.
Whispers into my neck
Chase away the chills.
It is going to be okay.
I can feel
The ground
Returning beneath my feet,
And my anxiety at last
Begins to retreat.

An Old Teapot

My handle is fragile,
Delicate, at best,
And my once sharp spout
Is now rounded at the edges.
My lid no longer fits.
It’s been eroded to bits,
And the once lovely rim
Has long since been chipped.
The design on my belly
Was once of a tree,
Whose branches extended
Into little, pink leaves.
But the leaves have all fallen
Over many an autumn,
These bare, grey branches
Never again to blossom.
My clear, glossy finish
Has all fogged over,
And dust lies in heaps
Upon my old shoulders,
Where it’s collected for years
As I have sat so still.
Long has it been
Since I’ve felt the thrill
Of heat flowing through me,
Though I remember
It as it were yesterday.
Twas a frigid December.
The old woman sat
Huddled in wool
Next to a fireplace
That scared off the cold.
She turned the last page
And closed the book,
Then got to her feet
And took a look
At what teas she had
In her cupboard that day.
She chose something sweet
And started my way.
I’ve remembered the scent
From that day forth.
It was so cold outside,
But I remember warmth.
My edges are worn
But I don’t mind.
They were made this way
O’er the fondest of times.

Lost in Smoke

Hold it in,
The smoke and the fire.
Never breathe out
And risk the destruction
Of all that is so dear to you.
The memories these relics hold
Will billow in thick, black clouds
From the ashes,
And you will find yourself
Lost in the darkness.
And where do you turn
When you know not
What you are already facing?
But how do you step forward
To reach it either?
Turning in circles
Until the end of time,
And you cannot even
See yourself spinning,
The clouds all around you
Too dark to look different.
Until there comes a day
To wash away your sorrow,
The smoke that suffocates you
Washed into the dirt.
And on newly budding grass
That has pried its way
Through the pile of ashes,
Dew will shine
With brilliant clarity.
And, at long last,
You will take your first steps
Out of the forest clearing,
Having finally chosen your path.

Before I get started…

I am a writer. I have started several novels (still unfinished, but they’re works in progress) and hope to make it big one day. I might post sections of stories, ask questions about reading preferences (if anyone ever manages to miraculously stumble onto this page somehow), or just talk about my life. The truth is, I really have nothing better to do with my time. So here I am.