Kirjahaku

In the static I see the ruby eyed rat of second thought and dreary regret. Simplicity is the command of confidence, conviction to bind. Unwind only to find her life run out. Sitting on my shoulder is her sweet memory, the ghost of melancholy. Creations of the mind imagine up the worst. While kingdoms are built around me, all I can see is the dust and debris of what used to be. Sorrow, left to her slumber, rests on her final farewell.

Kid, people are breaking their backs for those dollar bills you're breathing up your nose. Awake, unaware, I stare out the glassy window screen. Where have you been? (Where have you bean?) He quips. His shoes, unclean, boots to bear the brunt of a days hard work. So I stare him up and down like a jerk. What are you doing at my door? I find my insecurity lying on the floor. Befuddled- begging to ask about your falling mask of sobriety. Why do I? Oh, why do I support your special type of negligence? It's been six months since we last spoke... The ode to muddy boots- Hey man, here's a buck if you're down on your luck. I'm curious, does he think I don't know? I can't see? A dusty nose- rail thin- skin and bones. Boy, when's the last time you had a decent meal? I pull you in- for a second let's get real. Have you seen yourself lately? Tell me, what's the deal? Seems to always be- some girl broke your heart. He takes a bite of broccoli and begins to sing his sad love song once again. Empty plate filled again, starving for a future he will never see without the ability to keep his nose clean.

Standing on the streets of my mind, desperate for some change. What can you spare for me? Can you spare me, stranger? Spare me from cynicism, the broken shoulder of philosophy. There's an element to suffering, one I'm quite familiar with, for without pain, there is no power. I am a beggar in my mind; where passion is currency, where consideration is a drug to crave, where desperation settles deep within my spirit. Desperate for an eye's attention, here comes dopamine's phony affection. Deflated egos everywhere are familiar with the feeling of ups & downs, and sideways looks. A beggar knows misfortune and her dreary streets to sleep. Home is a dream for discarded sentiments, a treasure, a concern to keep.

A decade passed, my head was in the clouds, fueled by hopes and dreams. Today I'm dedicated to setting lofty goals, and achieving each one. On occasion, my head drifts back to those dreams and I find myself living them. Whether known, or unknown, I have words in the world. I'm committed, despite any judgment, I carry on, I keep writing. My dreams may not be what I thought they would be. I'm the stubborn girl who has everything she wanted out of life. After getting everything I wanted, I found more. A bottomless well of inspiration, a breath-taking sip of hope. The water is clear, will not muddy, pure and ready to drink. So help yourself to the well.

He stares off into the space surrounding him. Lost his freedom of expression to the wound ball of yarn. Each push continues an ethereal unravel. By the throat, left tangled in stringy embrace. Something as simple as this left him voiceless. Our response seems to be, "accidents happen." Let me tell you, those at fault don't believe in accidents. They believe in horrible, horrible mistakes. Mistakes happen.

Will I understand at any point, how, in one's mind, extreme violence becomes the only path worth taking? I wish I could spend time talking to the minds of those individuals. Explain the value of human life. Though the likelihood of listening ears might be low. As long as people talk and have been talking about such sensitive issues. There has been, and will be hope for a light to spark above someone's head. A blink, and the hopeful realization, their current line of thinking isn't working. I'm aware I'm a dreamer, most of what I say sounds far-fetched. Out of touch with what might be your reality. Something inside of me screams about these being the only types of dreams with the potential to save someone's life one day. I know it's absurd, to realize I have this sort of insight, I believe everyone does. The kind which holds a certain kind of power over another life. It could be childish of me to presume it's as simple as the need to hear someone cares. . . I care. These words ring true, they have more power than many other I've heard before. When will we start talking to the great big elephant in the room? It seems like the elephant's me, I'm learning this isn't the case. At times the elephant has the most elegant way of thinking, speaking, living, and perceiving. We tend to gloss the elephant over, complain and cry about it. You should consider staying silent, and listening to the elephant in your life for a change.

Everyone has demons, but how much do we take off our red mask showing how they get the most of us? The mask may be imaginary, but it's a growing problem sitting in the pews at the church of "Can you help me please?" Yet most don't even know, or can't even admit it's needed. It's sad how we're so quick to criticize but can't admit our own imperfections or even begin to decipher our daily demons because we're so busy masquerading around in red. While we're ignoring our harsh realities, dancing our way through life, wounded on the inside and deteriorating underneath- what I fear most about this, happens to be how many of us live, unaware we're wearing a mask.

My mind slips, deep in to some sort of oblivion while wondering where the year has gone because at times it feels like it's wasted, but then I ask myself; What more could I have done? Can I become more productive? I set myself some lofty goals and achieve each one with down time to spare. Yet this heart feels like it needs a voice in this world and it will beat with a stubborn determination to carry out this plan, until its final beat.

So I walked outside, and there they were. These two baby bluebirds in the gap underneath the threshold of my back door. As if they were knocking to get in, and meant to be mine. Only a peep heard in place of each knock. So I picked them up, and brought them inside as my compassion gets the most of me. I dreamt only of what I would do in reality, because who's going to leave two baby bluebirds outside alone on a freezing winter day? There they sat in my palm, large enough to fit two tiny fluffy bluebirds.

I'd like to see myself in a stranger's eyes so I can lapse from the life I live and lead my life on my own. So, stranger, could you tell me, do I look secure enough to you? Do I look confident, or do I look confused to you? Does my posture alone prove my worth, or did my body stop speaking for itself? Could my voice be a voice you want to hear? Would you lend me a listening ear? The biggest question I bare to you could, myself, be meaningful to you?