To Be Alone

What does it mean to be alone?

To let the rain fall,
To be crushed by stars,
ground up into a fine paste,
splattered across the Universe.

So carefully scattered,
Like a finger painting all in black,
By a child who is too young to start school
But too old to wait another year.

Too old, she is told,
To spend her days lost,
With her imaginary friends,
The only kind she's ever known,

Save for the sweet golden friend
Who would lay at her feet,
All panting smiles and wagging tails,
But now gone, all the same.

So she sits alone,
Outside her apartment,
Letting the rain soak through,
Letting the stars crush her,

Will she always be alone?

Run

When the world tells you to run, listen.

Pull away from routine and heavy responsibility.

Go somewhere you've never been.

Do something that terrifies you.

Just get out.

For an hour, a day, a week.

Just run.

And so run, I will.

I will run and jump and climb 

I will climb until people look like ants 

Until the world is

Way

                       Way

                                            Down 

And the only thing left to do is

Just jump.

So I will jump

Feel the wind in my hair

Rushing, speeding enveloping my entire being

And all of this before I make a move

I will sit, and think, and wait.

Just breathe.

Breathe in the rich scent of Earth,

The scent of sunshine,

Or of freshly fallen rain,

The smells that make us run

The smells of life,

And with them,

Death

Here's to Fitting in

Here's to fitting in and forgetting who we are,

Just to be accepted we accept ourselves sub-par,

Blankly staring forward and not getting very far,

Just trying not to hit it, we crawl underneath the bar.

Under covers and blankets we hide from humanity,

Trying so hard to preserve our sanity,

Which we never really had in our state of vanity,

So in the end we resort to profanities.

We rebel against the world and rebel against the man,

We forget about our manners and drop our sirs and ma'ams,

We ignore all the rules and run all the scams,

Our families are shocked but frankly, my dear, we don't give a damn.

They make us want to write and that's no compliment,

We hate to complain, but have to lament,

About unrequited love and how they make us want to quit,

But let's forget that and call this a battle of wits.

Fear of Falling

Isn't it strange,

Things fall into place,

And fly out of control,

Not the other way around?

Yet man has a burning desire,

A will to fly,

And a fear of falling,

Do they keep their lives in chaos?

Not letting anything fall,

Letting everything fly,

Watching things crash,

Watching the lights zoom past.

All simply because they have a fear,

Because they won't let go,

Step off of a platform,

Let themselves fall into place.

Just taking a step,

Taking a risk,

It's all too much,

So they keep flying.

Keep flying past doors,

Where opportunities wait,

Flying past nooks and crannies and beautiful sights,

Never finding their place.

Falling Into Place

Everything falls into place,

Like music to a beat,

Like beams of sunshine beating down,

Light filtered by tall evergreens on an old dirt road,

This is where dreams belong.

Breathe in the scent of pine,

Breathe out and everything melts away,

All that remains is a circle,

The crunch of leaves beneath feet,

A soundtrack blaring words of truth.

Walking in time to music,

Music plays in time to life,

Life falls into place,

And just as quickly falls back out,

Always falling.

One day I'll catch myself landing exactly where I want to be,

Walking in time to the music,

A soundtrack blaring words of truth,

Right where dreams belong,

And realize I've been here all along.

____

Emptiness, Like Hunger Grows

Emptiness, like hunger, grows

Waiting to be fed,

To be filled with something, anything,

The hurt growing as it is left to sit and brew,

Nothing can satiate this hunger.

The Hunger of young minds,

Pleading for knowledge,

The Hunger of old souls,

Pleading for peace,

Both waiting for the empty void to fill.

A void so quiet that a drip onto cold metal could echo forever,

Echo, and be a reminder of the great empty valley,

A valley of stone and steel,

Cold. Hard. Broken.

Nothing can stay here.

Every bit of warmth,

Every bit of kindness,

Every bit of love,

Finds a crack to seep through,

Creates a broken prison that succeeds only in trapping emptiness

A prison that holds its own creator,

Binds them,

Chokes them,

Suffocates them,

Breaks them until they can't be broken any more.

Words fighting to be spoken,

Tears fighting to be shed,

But only emptiness is left,

There is nothing here,

Nothing remains.

No tears left to cry,

No thoughts left to think,

No breaths left to take,

No words left to speak,

And the rest, they say, is silence,

Which falls, piercing, like a scream.

_____

Not much to say about this. I wrote it about a month ago.

-Alyssa-

Waiting for Words

Waiting for words to come,

Wasting time,

Watching clouds drift by,

Letting life slip away.

Inspiration doesn't fall into your lap,

Fall into place,

Snuggle up in a perfect corner,

With perfect words to match.

You can't write without doing,

Or do without trying,

Or try without living,

Without life, you have a problem.

Sometimes you have to stop,

Rest awhile beneath the shade of a tree,

Watch the clouds drift by,

And write without inspiration.

Challenge yourself to something new,

Do something difficult,

While enjoying something peaceful,

Maybe then the words will come.

Word Vomit!

You let your skin fall away. You just let the solid exterior that everyone sees; the smiles and the "I'm fine, how are you?"s; slide off like a stick of butter slides down a slip n'slide coated in olive oil. It happens so fast that you don't realize it's happened at all. The butter slips through your fingers and you're still waiting to catch it. You start letting me see the side of you that you've never let anyone see before; your hopes, your dreams, your fears and goals and aspirations. I don't know where to put them all because my own skin is bursting at the seams. My own goals and dreams screaming at me to pursue them. My own fears that I keep hidden away. My own hopes that I know will never become reality. They're all pushing outwards, waiting to shoot out into the sky like fireworks. Stitch by stitch I come undone as you sit fully unraveled before me. I wonder how long you've been fraying, decomposing like a rotting corpse. Did you have someone torn to pieces at your feet as you split your seams, too afraid to turn them away for fear you'd rip apart their fragile remains? Did you break stitch by stitch, or were you cut in two by meddling hands? 

I try to reach out to you; to forget my fraying edges and try to mend your pile of tattered strings. I can't quite repair you. I can't shove stuffing back in and sew you up. It's not that easy. I'm not that talented a seamstress, but I tell you that I can still try, if you'll let me. And I do. I do try to weave together the gentle fabric that once managed to contain you. I have to know; will you sew me back up when I come fully unraveled? Sit by my side and painstakingly weave my pile of strings into fabric, once again? Will you let yourself fray as you sew my seams, trying to contain your stuffing as it tries to paint the sky? I'd like to think that you would, but I hope you won't. I hope you won't begin a cycle of the frayed fixing the fully unraveled. I hope you won't sacrifice yourself for my good. What do I care if I'm already unraveled? When I am pieced back together I won't be the same as before. Patches will appear where cloth could no longer be woven. I will be both new and old. Not quite dead, but not truly alive anymore either. So now I have to wonder, would you have wanted this pile of string and bits of cloth to take shape again? Would you want to begin again only to fray once more?

Your Cup of Tea

You once said I was your cup of tea,

But now you know I'm not,

Boiled and steeped so long,

I think that maybe you forgot.

For as you held me to your lips,

Expecting something sweet,

The cold ceramic in your hands,

Held only bitter heat,

Splattered on the carpet,

Stains and broken shards,

I told you it would end this way,

You wouldn't give me kind regards.

I'm over-steeped and bitter,

As I seep into your floor,

You want to leave this mess behind,

And walk right out the door.

I wasn't watered down enough,

Not quite sweetened right,

But I could wake you in the morning,

And see you to bed, each night.

I know I wasn't perfect,

I may have caused you pain,

But you said I was your cup of tea,

And you'd love me just the same.

Now I see the problem,

It's very clear to me,

You really wanted coffee,

And I was only tea.

Step 1: Complete! Look! I wrote something!

Stewart glared ferociously past the brilliant watercolor sky, obscured by a light feathering of brilliant white clouds. He looked past the boats that looked like no more than children's bath toys, bobbing ever so slightly, almost mocking Stewart's weak heart. He did not, however, look past the cerulean ocean upon which the toy boats floated and upon which the watercolor sky was resting. His energy was running low, but he sat staring, silently still and stony-faced, completely unaware of the steaming bowl of curry placed before him by his mother, despite the fact that with every inhalation, it was causing his eyes to produce the saline solution regarded widely as tears. Stewart was too busy replaying that moment in his head. The moment he had been told that he was going to die.Of course, he knew this already. Everyone died sooner or later. It just so happened that Stewart's death was meant to come sooner and until February third at precisely two minutes after four, he had not been aware of it. He was constantly plagued by the memory of that moment.

His health had not seemed poor. He had just been in for a check-up. The doctor whisked his mother away, as he had not wished to alarm the young boy, and told her he wanted to run some tests. The doctor's glacial hands matched his attitude as they brushed across Stewart's skin, and half-heartedly tried to prepare Stewart for the same tests that had gone so smoothly just a few years earlier. The whole process was so cold and detached. Stewart loathed it. He longed for his living room couch, his new cell phone that would keep him in touch with his friends and girlfriend, whom he had met in pure serendipity and a huge bowl of popcorn drenched in fake, mouth-coating, bright yellow butter. He clenched his fists as his body entered the equally cold metal tube. Why did he have to be the test subject? Why was he the only one they had ever seen cursed with what he liked to call “dark matter”. It wasn't fair. His body had decided to take years of evolution, meant to create stronger and healthier human beings, and throw it out the window, creating something in the backbone of his DNA that no doctor or scientist had ever seen in the human genome before.

There was no justice in the world. At least, that is what both Stewart and his mother thought as they drove home that day, past the playground-turned quarry where Stewart had broken his arm as a quirky and energetic seven-year-old. Now he sat stone-cold and broken. His mystery disease only worsened by medications that had acted as catalysts. Stewart felt inhuman. He was a mutation; a firework. He could die at any time, and deeply hurt those who had become close to him, but for the cold, detached doctors and scientists, his death would be a beautiful array of new information to be discovered.