This is my world for my writing. My collection is small and most is untyped, so I'll try to post one or two new things a week. Please refrain from judging my work too harshly, although feel free to make any suggestions. This site will mostly contain short stories and poetry. Thanks for stopping by and please tell me what you think.
Love,
Bird
P.S.
I doubt you would actually want to steal anything, but just as a note, all of my work is copyrighted.
Someone told me once that no one survives car accidents
That happen at 90 miles an hour.
No worries. I’m me. Goody two-shoes me.
I drive 72.
Today, free of distraction
No friends
No music
Windows closed tight and road clear of drivers
I consciously drove 90, by no mistake.
There was no thrill- that’s not what I was searching for.
No peace or freedom.
Just me. Driving 90. Because
Someone once told me that no one survives car accidents
That happen at 90 miles an hour.
Loneliness is a portrait without eyes
the empty face void of expression
a gasped sigh for light never to be seen
through lips unable to cry for something lost
that they possibly never had.
The leaves fall on chilled air
They flutter a bit
And collect in the gutters
and cling to the pavement around the tires of parked cars.
Wind and rubber soles
batter what's left of orange skeletons.
Sometimes I feel like a lawn care man
with a leaf blower
A job only done to feed my family
with no thought of the trees that used these to give us shade
or the god who gave us the trees
just living, existing, to gather up the remains.
There is never enough of me
THough it is you who does not know the length of an hour
or four
or forty
as I sit with heavy heart and hurting hands
you will never see my effort
But oh, you will notice when I fail.
I cry out for you
though it is I who works
rocking myself to sleep.
It is my mind burning
Seared with my thoughts
Welded into my hymn
tearing each note from the page.
Are you entitled to judge?
Or better, is there no way for you to help me
believe a lie when I know the truth?
That I will never be enough
That I am forever imperfect
My music broken.
I have traded peace for your lips
Confidence for your eyes
and my song, for your black heart.
Butterflies crept from the pages of the book we held,
and golden threads rained, quivering, down across our faces
like confetti from the tips of their feet.
Your hand brushed the strands from my cheek
and you pulled me close and whispered the words
from the page as if it were a secret
for my ears alone.
We hung in the clouds over the setting sun,
the pink dancing in your hair
and the orange on the tip of your nose.
And you held me
and I knew how much I loved you.
