A Little Bit Of Sunshine

I wear lonely like a second skin desperation, like a fragrance My mind is in disarray yearning for someone to talk to. I mean, searching...it's not a dignified desire It's downright feral and foaming at the mouth It's shuddering at the smallest chance you might say hi. And talk about the weather.  I've gazed at the sky all week,  trying to keep informed.  I'm hanging by the phone, awaiting the tone Dear salesman, please sell me something Don't hang up just yet! I might actually be in need of a prosthetic leg...now was it the right or the left?  Dear old friend, please tell me something  I gush all my secrets to the poems, and oh do they listen. They've heard it all, carried it all...  Every. Last. Word.  But chances of them talking back are pretty small.  If you're wondering why my inner ramblings are resembling those of an alcoholic writer who fell to his death from an unknown height,  I've decided you don't exist, dear reader.  Every d...

Thus, the quest to "find myself" has been one grand celestial crank call (see: big joke)  I was never lost. I've always known who I was and what I wanted. The real issue at hand is and always was, accepting myself. And so, like most stories go... Mine ends right back at the beginning. Back to the fetal position. Or maybe further than that. When I was a hulk of cells, or maybe further more. When the earth was without form. The good ol' days, where days lasted eternity and eternity a day. Sometimes when I pray, it all comes back to me. There's a yearning Burning inside me It seems I'm aging backwards Trying to get back to that place Where I was everything and nothing all wrapped up in one The end and the beginning with no boundary line I'm not fighting for my dreams I'm fighting for what's real Greatness can't be achieved It can only be retrieved It was a stormy December When I remembered That I was once complete and at peace My entire existence...

I have lived life as honestly as one can, With my head bent low and meager possessions in my hand. I never did change the world But I always spared a kind word To whom it may concern. I desired not money or accolade Nor the praise of human lips The pleasures of wine Or slimmer hips But I longed for a dance, or two A glance across a crowded ballroom. To whom it may concern. I once yearned to read all the books in the world.  Silly little girl. Every story ever told Is either love or war Love and war War turned love and love turned war Love yearned or unreturned I've no need to hear anymore. What's left to do? I tuck my hands in my pockets And wonder what I might find there. I walk barefoot. Grass between my toes, Occasionally I stop to smell a rose. I've achieved nothing but life the warm feel of the sun on my spine. Wordlessly, I exist. There are no statues erected in my honour My deeds don't inspire song Soundlessly, I persist. That persiste...

I've been thinking lately, about constellations Forgive me, I do not think myself above my station- It would be proper, real polite, of me to keep my head down Finish the labour work I left on the ground. I dare not dream aloud Merely thinking it, I overstep my bounds.  When I've tucked in and made sure no one's looking  I reach a hand to the stars, and for a moment...  I'm the biggest thing in the sky It isn't very often I cross the line.  But I brave the journey tonight  My steps resemble a little bird taking flight for the first ti- Yet nothing has changed.   I know my place, the small patch of earth where my name is engraved  Almost sinister, it awaits my return from space.  But for a second I linger,  Clasping the moon between my fingers...  I don't have the might of heroes  Nor the beauty from of old My voice is not made for song..  But in this tiny stolen moment,  I'm capable of flight. 

Forecast : laundry day No, that's not a metaphor for washing my troubles away Though I wish it were that easy.  Instead I'm washing clothes. Or truthfully, watching my mother do it.  Like she did with her mother  And her mother before her Don't be mistaken, there's no poetry to it It's grueling work.  Bruised knuckles, aching back Under the unforgiving sun.  Lugging baskets of clothes to hang on the washing line.  Still, as I watch the fluid movement of her hands..  The occasional flick of the wrist.  I think, what a gift.  There are no cameras to capture her technique, no ceremony or flowers. I seldom hear the words I love you  in my home But every week at the foot of my bed Lies a perfectly folded stack of clothes.  And I think of my mom, resting her feet after a day's work done.  I whisper to myself, Close enough. 

Forecast : a new dawn Was it just a week ago that I wrote about my birthday wish? Though I duck my head and avert my gaze at the thought, it weighed so heavily upon me at the time. I must maintain my dignity as the face of this blog at all times, but a few tears were involved. I want to feel loved and appreciated, just like anyone else. But if my very world's collapsing at the thought, something uglier is at play.  Pride? Entitlement? A charmed life?  I've clearly got some growing up to do.  At least my timing's impeccable.  It's just a day, really. Twenty four hours, a single rotation of the Earth...just like all the others.  Upon reflection, I'm most thankful to be able to see this day with my loved ones above all gifts and magic tricks. Though I will accept the latter with enthusiasm.  Here's why I won't delete the post in question :  Growth.  Might I point out, once again, such perfect timing . 

Forecast: near sunset After careful examination, I've determined that I have a heavy case of the human condition. The ugly thing that lay dormant in each of us, kept hidden under civilization and clothing.  Right now it makes no effort to hide, peering at me with cruel intention. And it's in this instance that I realize its face is my own. The imaginary line I made between beast and man is translucent. I find myself falling over it more often than I prefer. It's not what you want to hear, is it? That the only difference between yourself and the worst person alive is but a series of choices, a nudge...just the right amount of pressure. I do not kill. I do not steal. But in me was such promise. The same promise held in every manner of beast, awakened or asleep. Was I fool enough to think myself better because I didn't answer its call? I did not kill. I did not steal. But I tensed, I ground my teeth. I very near howled at the moon. How could I call myself good? How could I...

 Forecast: cloudy, threatening rain There's a post I made somewhere below...a silly rant about Aladdin and 3 perfect wishes... Um, try not to look it up. It'll only embarrass the both of us. I never did find a magic lamp but my 22nd birthday is on the way and my wish is too tiny, too simple, too shameful to utter aloud. What I want, what I want ... The question is posed again and again. What kind of cake do you want? Well... I want a small cake, exactly enough for everyone present, six candles alight in a dim room. Maybe it was whipped up at the last second or picked up at the store on the way home, maybe a wallet was held upside down...emptied in haste to cover the cost. Nothing can quite compete with the taste of being loved with all one had. What do I want?  What I want is not to be asked.  What I want is hands covering my eyes, leading me to the door "I'm sorry this is all I could afford" It's so little but so much more  than I could dare to ask for. Maybe...

I'm learning new ways to say I love you. A warm plate of breakfast.  Imperfect omelet on toast, slices of fresh avocado and bitter coffee served with shaky hands. A head popping into the kitchen, asking "Do you need some help?" A friend, sending me a song.  This made me think of you.  My mother, giving me an aspirin.  When the bad voice in my head gets too loud, I carry these moments. Of love unspoken. Of love too shy and broken To shout But still it stands, firm and true. Learning new ways to say I love you. 

Well, this isn't really fair is it? You were promised sunshine And I delivered rainclouds.  So I step outside, in search of some. The grass wets my feet with dew and the birds sing what I imagine  is a popular tune.  Everything is still and shy, much like me.  I see myself in the sky...  on the verge of breaking forth and shining into a happier dawn.  We're gonna do it, the sun and I any minute now. I hope you like your sunshine with a side of clouds.

There are times when existence is nearly unbearable  Where being alive feels like a chore I'm not quite qualified for. I contemplate the mere 5×2 radius I take up in the world... still I think it generous. I bunch my shoulders and cross my arms But there I am.  Much too bold, a little too loud Even one can be a crowd.  I sprinkle roses in my words  ...still thorns fall out  Oh but to float from room to room my presence a dainty whisper But there I am.  Much too solid, a little too alive Today I manage to get by. I lived.  My task is done.  I did it kicking and screaming,  but in the end all it took  was standing and breathing. 

Something significant happened on such a day as this The fourth day of April.  Was it two winters ago? Three?  I don't remember how I got home, but something must've carried me... A memory? A somebody? For the life of me I can't recall Was it a glance...was I courageous enough to dance? On such a day as this  I managed to find some bliss It's faint now, a hazy recollection. But it's no matter, I know it can be found again On such a day as this.

"Inspired by the artistic talents of Troy Bolton and a T-shirt" It was a clear day, many recalled, and correctly so. The grass was sickly green, forcing one to avert their gaze to the sky, only to find a similar sight. The world was set at its brightest setting, as though there a were a man…no, perhaps an entire team of people controlling the picture we saw to the finest detail. A golf course, we begin to understand and visibly relax now that the sharp green is given explanation. A clear day, a blue sky and green grass. Our recollection would end there if not for a pounding rhythm, footsteps. A figure clad in black, stomps on the manicured lawn, the first and much welcome sign of chaos in the scenery. Coming to a pause on the hill, the figure begins to sing, “Everybody’s always talking at me, everybody's tryna get in my head…” W e find we already know the words. Granted, we can’t rule out the possibility that we’ve recollected the scene one too many times. Still, there’s ...