Memory Drawer

Demons come out to play,

Old creaky hinges sway.

They dance in the mind,

To old wounds blind:

Memory Drawer.

There is so much that I could write to you about, but words escape me.  For those of you who don't know, I'm working full time now, and as of today, I'll be married in two months.  I'm back at home for the time being, and the transition hasn't been the easiest for me - I feel as if I'm 16 all over again, except with lots of experiences and history behind me.  College is over with, for heavens sake.  At any rate, I was digging through a drawer in my bed recently that I have reserved for "memory" things, and I stumbled across many artifacts of people I have interacted with in...less than favorable circumstances.  It tore me up a little, and inspired the previous poem.  It's amazing the things that small pictures and poems and bracelets can stir up.

Further, and I'm not sure if it's the transitions or the hard decisions coming up or what, but I've been having nightmares - not bad dreams, as if they are something a little child suffers from - every single night for the past few weeks.  I have a host of reasons why this might be, but as I said, reasoning escapes me at the moment.  All I have for you is this poem.  Perhaps that will better convey to you what I feel.

And perhaps next time I write it will not be so...terrifying.

Standing on the edge of an abyss,

Looking into a cesspool of nightmares,

Forced to choose for a tryst.

Your featherweight dreams drown,

Dread dancing in delight,

Eating away at the edge 

of your consciousness.

A creak, a squeak, the

footsteps of a ghost vanishing

the moment you move your mind

in its direction.

Musings of murder making merry,

Sounds of seduction and sin

suggesting your downfall,

Perspiration pouring,

Heart hammering,

Blackness bombarding your body

with the weight of the wrongdoings

of your life.

Slumber drags your wakeful

eyelids closed against your will;

Sweet sleep laced with terror;

Nightly rest haunted by

ceaseless spectors.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

Sometimes inspiration comes in floods after long dry spells.  To be honest, it feels like breathing again after being underwater until your lungs almost explode.  I offer no apology for two posts in two days; instead, I offer the hope that one of them speaks to you in a way that inspires you like my clouds inspire me.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

A bright yellow sweater

Masks a grey shirt,

Subconsciously emulating

The relationship between

Your face and your heart.

Your off-white shoes

Give commentary on the

State of your character:

Tarnished, stained; an environ-

Mental project in the works.

The storm-cloud jar deflects

The dispersing winds of spring,

And to avoid inquiring noses

Dons a camouflage of sun.

Happier in hurricanes than

On a blissful day, because

All walls of pretense come

Momentarily down.

Perceived through tinted lens,

This shrouded smog is

Condemned as untrusting:

Do you have any Right?

Don’t you draw breath?

But even He sweated blood

And dreaded and begged for

Another way, soul battered

By the howling winds

Of the storm.

And if it was so with He,

How much more with me?

This stormy inspiration that

Constantly rages in little jar,

At the very least has won

Incomprehensible love,

And shows others that

They are not alone.

Now you have seen the

Contents of the sunny

Jar of Clouds.

Transparency is rare.  It

Comes at a cost.  And

Now that you see, I’ll blend

Right back in.  Slipping

Yellow hoodie on again,

To protect from the wind.