sunbeams

come ride with me

inside golden loops

and marigold splashes

warm and bright

our faith pushing past the nay-sayers

imagine it

the first fingers to touch the sun

and be filled with impeccable energy

the ride

the story of a lifetime

chasing sunbeams until dreams come true

a slow, long blink

theres a calm and no storm in sight
a tea kettle on the stove
with no steam or loud noises
just a calm
floating in the ocean
cuddled under a plethora of blankets
melting into a good book
there is a peaceful silence
bird chirps and sweet piano music
everything lovely
filling the air
this very atmosphere
has enchanted my whole soul
in these footsteps
i am rested

my painting

simply: it isn't always easy. very seldom simple.
its a view. an image you have spent twenty-two years painting. so imagine the frustration of the difficult tasks when told your painting is all wrong. you're a dreadful artist - gloomy and dark. fix it. "fix it." people say it like it isn't the hardest thing in the world. they say it in a way to cause me to believe they have no problems of their own. who are they, anyway? why is my business so fascinating to them and why do they feel the need to bombard me with their cruel opinions and selfish advise? ..i'm putting them deep down in mud. the fact is, i get it, you know? the gloom and gray shades, i get it. i do it, sometimes. but not always. mostly, i'm sunshine and pale blue skies. fluffy white clouds and cheerful robins. but give me a break, this is reality, here. the storm clouds are going to stuff them selves into my small apartment and crowd me with their ever-giving negativity. just give me a moment. hold me while i cry. i'll get it under control - just building the familiar muscle to fight. and one of these days i'm going to win.

girl.

my brow is growing old of its too familiar furrow. the aches are becoming somewhat of a habit and i think my physician would classify this as an unhealthy addiction of gray clouds and sweat pants. but what am i to do? it isn't like i can pull magic powers from the pocket across my loud stomach in my hoodie and change my very DNA. its unheard of, unfortunately. i'm only me. mortal as you - i can't change it. so i am finding my unstable smile and frown forced to deal with it. i believe they call it reality. living. whatever. it wouldn't be so difficult if i didn't have someone who cared more about myself that i do. (he is ever so wonderful). i almost hate watching him watch me as i writhe inside myself but paste a faulty smile on my pink lips. he knows. he sees right through any action that isn't me. he understands its part of me, but i can easily decipher him. deep in his big heart, he wishes he could take it from me. steal my burden and my cramping muscle. he wants me to be at peace. but thats only what magnificently happens in fairy-tales. like i said, this is reality. its real life. no fairy godmothers, here. what a drag. the worst part about it is as i waste away on this leather couch snuggled in turquoise heaven, my mood attacks his. he becomes as sallow as i am. his feet drag behind mine and his smiles become limited. all i can bear to think as i watch the dark gloom take him over is: thats my fault. all he deserves is to be happy and i've ridden him of his right. how dare i? so i furrow my brow, again. there should be a way to fix this. but i can't find it. maybe tomorrow evening i'll find the light ground and can mend my broken atmosphere.

the rare kind

i smell like a home cooked meal straight out of my mother-in-laws kitchen. its a smell that intoxicates you with warmth and memories of laughter and a new addition to the family you've always had. as i  lay here in my gray bed, i am finding that my limbs are exhausted and my brain is slowing. my heart rate is rested and night owls - the rare kind that sleep - are beckoning for my companionship. its quaint. but my lover isn't yet in bed so my eyes cannot rest until i've snuggled him into his twitching sleep coma. for being a day of rest, i always feel so warn of exertion at the end of this day. its funny how little things like that pan out over the weeks.

tired, overslept eyes
wake to an unknown sunday afternoon
last night felt like warm wind
and these sheets are too sweaty, now
he'll fall out of bed first
always more chipper than i can be
i wait for minutes to melt by
then unwillingly cover myself in water
its time to wake up, after all

clouds

a mess of sheets. piles of pillows. the melodic crinkle of fabric settling over skin, bones and muscle. one entirely exhausted appearing man. a young soul who deserves the comfort of endless feathers and cradling blankets, offering only the best form of joy and rest. the man under the covers sleeps soundly, but always aware of what surrounds the things he loves. the hardest working human the earth became privileged enough to hold as he made the most of his every day. what a steady clock, he is. an example to the rest of Gods children. a hero to many. a husband to one lucky soul. he cozies up to another fluff of softness and inhales so deeply. good morning, love. sleep as long as you'd like.

thick liner and pressed flowers

i feel as if i should go back to what i consider my "roots" when it comes to spilling my soul onto pages or spilling it through scattered, frantic fingertips. i've strayed too far. tried too hard to conform. that has never been my style, just inquire of my educators as i grew up. i'll be me, thanks. old pictures. forced visions. description in a way i call just. the style i so desire - the things that i love. only a new chapter. time away has altered only small pieces. insignificant to you, greatly important to me. you know, the kind of writing that reminds you of classic red lipstick, thick black liner, pressed flowers and old, dusted novels. the comfort-food lyrical words. me.