Stop Sign.

I am overwhelmed in a way that I cannot begin to concentrate.  The colors, the sounds, the movements, the rabbit trail of thoughts are all pulling me away from doing much of anything.

My thoughts are occupied on everything but really thinking.

The sensation of it all is funny to me, and I want to laugh, but I am too distracted to be amused.  I find myself becoming more and more annoyed.  I cannot seem to tame this beast of my mind.

I try to paint, I try to write, I try to make dinner, I try to make coffee, yet I am dauddling.  I am lost in paintings I have never painted within my mind, the weight of so many ideas taking its toll on my ability to manage time.

There are about five books sitting near me, and they are all begging my attention, yet I am too distracted to read for very long today.  I am pulled between all these ways I need to make money to support living, yet, I'm merely pulled and not perplexed enough to be making any money.

Maybe I need more annoying music playing.

Maybe I need silence.

Then I focus on the sounds of one small fly living to pester me as I try to find solitude.

Not that I'm trying to find solitude...

I'm gonna stop while I'm ahead, though I'm not ahead of anything.

Scissors

Holy Bad Haircut Batman.

Foreigner

The words were foreign.  You were the foreigner here.

You were the forgotten here, in my garden of heart.

Well kept with weeds, or the prize winning horticulture display,

You would not know.

You were the foreigner and the one unknown to this land.

This soil is not where you began.

What brings you to this side of the world?

What brings you to travel to this darkness?

What brings you?

Do you dare travel these lands alone?

I hope you have good hiking shoes.  It is a confusing terrain.

Half Asleep, Wind Chimes

It was a different time.  Things were different then.  Why do you insist upon reliving the past?

Where is your present?

Nowhere to be found.

Where is your future?

Buried in the ground if you keep looking behind you for what lies ahead.

History may repeat itself,

But you are not dead, yet.

Where have you been?

The heavens cry out with such overwhelming silence, you swear you heard the answer somewhere inside that textbook you read while you were half asleep.  If only you had half as good a memory as you used to before when things were different then.

Retaining the information was like the pack rat, never throwing away.

Now, there is the empty attic, the empty garage.

There is a shell that used to be a home.

There is a bridge that used to bridge something.

Now there is nothing left over.

No change for a dollar.

No change to the bland look in your eye.

Bland as the Wonder Bread, pure, white.

Your pupils are stained with time.

Your spectacles ruin the once beautiful view of your eyes.

You used to be so nice.

Now a porcupine's outer layer seems like a comfort.

You are the one who makes us wait for you to come out of the shell.

The sharp remarks, the sharks retorts,

Eat that dinner, bloody and raw.

The wind chimes mock your facade.

Begin again?

Think it will be easy to pull yourself from the Hell you have made?  Think again.  You are the over exaggerating, all annoying sort.  You would let the lies drip from your tongue like the poison your blood must be made of.

Drip.

Drop.

Trip.

Yes, you forget to tie your shoes frequently.  Someday your nose will break without the fair warning to be more careful.  Careless, and shoelaceless, you are the bleeding from your own misdeed.  Your slight lack leaves the slack on your feet able to trip you up to put you down and out for the count.

No one needs to beat you down.

You will take yourself out of the race.

Who needs the competition anyway?

Different stories have different outcomes.

Endings had a beginning, once upon a time.

Red Roses

I used to be a poet once.

Not anymore.

The strings that used to tie my thoughts, cut short.

Cut short like my hair.

Anger flows out towards the hairdresser who heeds not the warnings.

Anger trickles like floodwaters upon those who forgot to read directions.

Your lack of direction leaves you without a map.

Not that you could read it anyway.

You lack the ability to read, though, pretending has always suited you.

Queen of Hearts.

Lay down your heart.

Who has been painting my roses red?

Without Strings.

New sounds surround me.  I just want time to fade into the lack of noise, and into the purification of the sounds floating like leaves in reverse.

Add the letters.

Create your own story.

Fly higher than you once thought you could.

Push yourself farther than you've ever pushed before.

Blood, sweat, bone, you're crunching now.

Floating higher,

Pushing harder.

Being what you've always meant to be,

Or being someone you never thought you'd be.

Changing, cascading through the landscape,

Changing with the pined ruts of the fields,

Changing with the push and pull of the soil,

Growing tired,

Growing tilled.

Changing face,

Cascading.

Never thought.

Soaring higher, floating into the distance,

Becoming the silhouettes,

Puppets on the sunset,

Without strings.

Soar without wings.

What were you thinking?

No thought, just action.