A Little Bit Of Sunshine

"So what if this house should burn down? For once there may be warmth  inside these dreary walls..." And you!  Why are you so cold?  Why does your heart never thaw Who should I be, where should I go For your anger to be satisfied?  It wouldn't matter if I brought bread down from heaven...  You despise me so, you can't even hide Why won't you just look at me?  Approval...disapproval On and on the pendulum swings, both ends sting But not love. Never love I'm tired of making excuses, of hiding behind you I'm tired of you hiding behind me Come out and show your true skin.  I'd rather you snapped, mocked and spat But your heart is closed completely You look my way and don't even see me It must be true...I'm barely alive, I'm dead to you You wrote me off long ago And now I'm just an errant ghost invading your home How I've tried, how I've sliced...  And tested my words in fire Still they taste to you sour

I know I said I was doing well That all the jagged pieces were falling into place  But I grew tired of polishing my mirror  When what I truly yearned for was a different face. Here's what happened...  I'd finished my book, the epic adventure east The journey north the story of my life etched in A4 I took a good long look at it... And all at once, longed for more A different story.  To sing a new melody  Here's what happened..  I had ten new pieces ready to be published  And then this thought: Were they actually new, or just the same old words given different shape?  Some underlined with sharpie,  some draped in italics or shouted in bold.  Suddenly it wasn't enough just to fill the pages... But to transform them. 

Left out of group hugs Made to walk alone With no one to hold For they never worry he will be stolen..  But what if he were simply cold?  Who counts the hours till he gets home?  Not to make sure he is safe but simply that they were eager to see his face?  Who will know when to hug instead of scold him?  Who can he tell his fears, where can he let fall his tears?  "Boys are easy, they pretty much raise themselves"   What if we treated our sons like flowers instead of weeds?  Covered them, pruned their leaves, watched after them day after day  Asked them their needs, allowed them to be shy unsure soft kind human beings . 

Like a character out of a children's story, I set out on a personal quest. An adventure East, a journey North. Except I would write it myself... An actual book. Can you believe it? I imagined I would sit and throw all my  thoughts and life experiences on the page and pray something would stick. And then, almost too easily, it did. Like the words had been silently waiting, ever ready.  I'd started this journey to challenge myself... To prove I could do it. Amazingly, the real challenge became how to stop . How not to write. How to go about life outside the lines? To sit at a desk and work for an invisible prize. How had I let any of the days pass by unwritten? How did anyone? Suddenly, it wasn't enough...one mere book.  I needed to write a new one every week, everytime I went to sleep. Another as I woke up. A fresh chapter each passing moment. Nothing could go to waste. Every day under the sun was an armload of stories I hadn't begun. 

I'll never be my mother's definition of beautiful Graceful and tight-lipped... I'm all hard lines and sharp angles,  I could never find the right way to sit. I can't help but fidget, tinker and question My mind is scattered in every direction.  Still, I pose just right  Hands clasped in my lap. And wonder if I will ever fit in my mother's shoes  Or perhaps I fit too well Maybe the one she cannot accept is herself 

A sneeze. A sniffle a bit too loud.  A crease in my bed sheets An unexpected phone call..  A load of laundry That'll do it.  That's all it takes for the stillness to break, for the peace to shatter The roof to curl in on itself  And erupt into flames Like the camel that broke the straw's back Your eyes can find a haystack In a needle Eggshells tiptoe around you Still you make traps, for us to fall into. 

Delicate shades of brown in the softened ground  Teeming life.  In decay, as the leaves begin to rot In your mother's bubbling broth  The colour of the distant sands The back of my father's hands.  Yet brown is no one's favourite colour...  For it is not red with passion Or pinkened cheeks As cool as blue Or green with greed Or glittery gold... But it sits in the undergrowth  Holding up our foundation.  We hide in the deep dark wood And eat overly ripened fruit The rainbow may brighten the earth But brown holds it firm

Why I've been quiet: I am not above rejection and hopelessness The sense of failure that creeps in like a thief And leaves with your dreams tucked tight under its arm I am not above self-harm. I am always learning, and always forgetting Why I write : I write to make a literary contribution to the world  To mark all the places traveled and feelings unraveled  It is my equivalent to standing atop a cliff and proclaiming "I exist!" And if I should fall over it...  Well, what a grand exit indeed! 

I am sick with something I suspect is love My heart swells, my chest aches Perhaps it is something I ate Or didn't eat enough  Perhaps a face I contemplated much too long Maybe a sappy song I heard in passing  I'm in search of a cure, a long-winded metaphor to explain it away But this illness is lasting Spending my summer days bedridden Everyday I give a little bit of my heart away, not that he ever knew it..  A smile unbidden, a thought unhidden.  It’s funny, how love can feel like death And funnier, that it is a happy end. 

It's a metallic taste in my mouth I didn't expect so much blood.  It trails down my legs and stains the carpet  It seeps through the walls and steals all the warmth It settles in with an eerie chill I know will always haunt me The death of a dream.  A miscarried identity.  My womb is so so empty, I hear it echo forgotten lullabies  A picture of a woman, rocking a child against her chest All the world is against her, yes... but the baby coos softly, tiny fingers grasping, grabbing at thin air, searching for  something solid  And finding her mother there.  And her mother, her...a little gift unto herself.  The child is myself, but a few years ago Or perhaps a moment, I don't know.  I found purpose then.  I know I'll find it again. 

You came in this world fully clothed Embedded with all there is to know. And steadily, yet slow The world has stripped you  Of your smile, the light behind your eyes  Of daydreams, of virtue Hiding beneath the birches  Dancing with no purchase Do you remember "you"?  Who knew nothing of heaven or hell It never occurred to you to doubt yourself  Confident, until they told you that you couldn't do it.  Whole, but they said you had to grow.  And left behind this shell, battered and old You shall die naked...  An empty soul