They say, Made of clay. Astral mud And dusty stars, Or Heavy red Riverbank soul Farmed from the heart Of what we Truly are. Molded into What we wish To be. An image of god Or golden calf, Imperfect clay Are we.
This is an actual stream of conciousness type write. With inspiration also drawn from the photo for Fandango’s flash fiction challenge. Music: All Them Witches – Lost and Found EP (can be found here on youtube if interested)
Victoria_Borodinova at Pixabay
When I was a kid I liked to imagine my life somewhere exotic, in times and places far away.
I was Esmeralda, dancing in the hot breeze. I was Ariel, venturing beyond the realm of known. I was a power ranger, saving the world one swipe and swoosh at a time.
I was anything and everything: a paper bag carrying Superman’s groceries; a walking stick leading a great adventure.
I was taught, and well it seems, that I was only an accessory.
I was a compliment and a burden.
I was helpless when all I wanted was to be a hero.
I was worthless, a string of fake pearls snatched from Ms. Scarlett’s neck.
I was scattered, a faded news piece, irrelevant before my ink dried.
But all I dreamed was of being a hero, of saving the world one crisis at a time.
And maybe on the weekends I could still be Esmeralda, dancing under the moon.
This is everything Life was meant to be
The passage of time
Of lines in the road
Or trees on the horizon
Or years gliding
Through dim tunnels
And dark underbrush
How far we travel
How far we’ve come
(I will never not mention this song when given the chance)
Is this what becomes of us?
Today freezing rain
Tomorrow a summer breeze
Wind blows along the stream
Rustling thickets Driving rain
I exist at the funeral
But I float above Searching For the right combination The moment you walked away
I try to redirect you
With empty threats And promises of gold
As with most things
There’s something here.
I can feel it seething just below
Writhing and hissing and trying to throw me off
Passing fear is replaced with adrenaline
I grab handfuls of smoke
But it curls between my knuckles
Escaping into the void
I know it’s not vicious
Those gnashing jaws and underbelly growls
It’s all for show
I thought I would find you here,
With or without your noble steed. I knew. I never wanted to walk away. Maybe it was only me. It seems No one saves the day.
You breathe sideways
A movement pregnant with meaning To the needle of my mind
Depression is 136 untitled drafts
Neatly ordered by cut and depth Catalogued by tears spread And self destroying claims
No longer resembling the party And freezing floors Under burning drunken skin
It’s purposely destroyed
Dreams, papers, applications In the kitchen bin as you look on And bloodshot scared animal eyes
Pressured into ash While never sleeping or even stopping Because rules are always changing
It’s 136 pieces
Of torn papier-mâché soul Too stupid, too sad, too bad Scattered over cold tile floors
What is it I’m radiating?
I don’t look happy?
What was that sigh you ask?
Let me zip it, clip it
Put it back together.
Falling apart here
Is dipping in waters well known.
My fault for displaying
Any emotion but what you feel.
You know I can’t read minds
You just don’t care.
Let me zip it, clip it
Put it back together here.
For displaying any emotion
Other than what you feel.