You’re crumbling like the edge of an ancient cliff.
We are clinging to you. We are nothing, you’re the gift.
We are even less without our sibling.
We hold each other on cold nights, the cold winds chilling.
A kiss and a bullet are equal in the minds of your children.
It is our nature. We will step up; we will fill in.
Dying leaves twirl
Air nips at exposed hands and noses
Fruits on porches fend off evil spirits
Houses are warm
Friends are warmer
Scents of spices and maple syrup fill the body
An enormously old armchair commands the room
Relaxation, finally relaxation
Cool concrete on a long stretch of driveway
Sweet, sweet, pretty girl has a bad reputation
The home will soon be filled
Filled with long sleeves, coffee, and the sound of laughter and voices
The Turkey Run, run turkey run
A playful battle for skin
Generations, for generations
Colder and colder still
Gather once more, the old home beckons
Nature is invited and dressed for the occasion
Lovely boxes and brilliant glimmers keep the company in good company
Experienced hands are abound
We feel secure
We feel protected
The clouds rain down frozen sadness
The whir of tires on asphalt create white noise as the journey continues.
It’s dark, so dark that the lamps can’t cut through the fog. You only manage to see a hazy reminder of what once protected you.
Trees and long guardrails whizz by; you half expect to melt into your seat and live out the rest of your days as a puddle.
Green numbers show the time.
It’s always wrong.
You’re always wrong, aren’t you?
Timidly, you bring your knees up to your chest and wrap your tiny arms around them.
The engine whirs faster as it tries to keep pace.
The pain vanishes.
The worry vanishes.
It all turns to vapor.
Use your voice, young man. Use your voice and let it be heard. Do not fear what is to be feared by all.
Do not be paralyzed by the doubt and by the comparison. Let your mind be your own and let it run rampant through the ethereal valley.
Baby boy, my baby boy. The thorns are wide and numerous.
Allow the sword to burn through the evil and snare the heart of the monstrosity that holds you captive. Drive the white-hot blade into the dark, thick oil and expel it.
do it again.
I’m feelin’ this groove.
The bass is bumping like a heart
the melodies are flowing through my soul.
The vocals embrace me like a warm, puffy blanket on a cold winter evening.
The emotions wash over me like cold ocean waves.
I let them come.
I let them come.
My senses are dulled.
Oh baby, I’m in deep now.
Copper tubes sing their lovely song as the wind pushes against the hanging wooden slab.
Barren is the street that young children once ran upon, swinging cardboard swords and slaying invisible monsters.
Empty are the backyard shortcuts they used to run to each other’s homes for days of play.
Gone are those days.
Gone are the souls of heroics and their bravery, for they have been replaced with fear and cowardice.
We sharpen our tongues and brandish them with hesitation.
Now our monsters are reality.
What do I have to offer the world? That seems to be a question that almost everyone asks themselves.
I’m only twenty-two and I worry about this a good amount. What do I have to offer the rest of the world, to better it? What if writing isn’t my calling and it’s simply a hobby, nothing more?
What if being a ditch digger is my real calling? My skeletal body type would disagree but it could still be true.
I sometimes get weird bursts of confidence that make me think “Yeah, writing will be hard and tiring but I would be doing what I love, and isn’t that enough?”
My logical side kicks in to answer. “The world doesn’t want you to do what you love, it wants to turn a profit.”
Would writing be the same if I was being paid for it? I’ve always considered it an escape.
What good is a panic room if it constantly has a spotlight on it and is shaking?
In short, I don’t know what I want to be or even if I’ll be really good at anything. But that’s what life is about right? You go through it and attempt to figure yourself out, making a few decisions along the way.
Piece of cake.