Tag Archives: dreams

The Picket Fence Life


His eyes are far away, in lands soft and dizzy.
His heart is miles lost, and to a fault less than leery,
he holds up in his hands the moments of doubt.
He tends to forget sometimes what his life is about.

In sunsets. In moonlight, in fireflies dancing
in dewdrops, in mornings, in the minutes still passing,
he frets that his life will fall to pieces on the floor
and I don’t know how to tell him, he need not worry anymore.

I wrap my arms around him, whisper in his ear,
“I will protect you forever, worry not my dear.
You are the stronger man in any woman’s eyes.
You’ll have everything you want, whatever you desire.”

I tell him of the days that I wait so anxiously for,
the opportunities he’s brought to me, the ones I’ve placed at his door.
The moments when we grow old, and the youth we have still now,
I kiss his cheek softly, smooth the wrinkle from his brow.

He will be married to a wife who’d give up her heart.
He will have the life of a king, she will hold close to the start.
She promises him everything, anything he wants and more,
she’ll give him her heart, her soul, whatever he asks for.

He will have children who are wrapped around his legs,
with tiny hands and arms, put them to sleep in tiny beds.
He will spend nights at home, happily content with peace.
He will go to sleep each night, and wake up beside me.

He will have power in the career of his choosing,
he’ll treat his coworkers well, without over-abusing.
He’ll trust his earnings into salary micro-managed,
he is a strong man, he will have his plan.

And when he is old and grey, I will still be beside him,
we’ll watch our kids get old, and we will still confide in.
We’ll still be the best friends we are, and a life still left unaltered
the love we have now will have grown yet still, and untarnished and unfaltered.

He listens to my tales of surreptitious pandering,
A smile finds his lips as he hears my senseless ramblings.
I’ve said all this before, but it still comforts him to hear
that no matter where he goes in life, I’ll still always be here.

Laughter in the Rain


In a dream I had with pieces that once left missing,
I saw a silver gown that fell below my toes.
And from the clouds above that blinded every angel
I met the mists of rain that sought to turn me ghost.
And all the people in the crowds jumped up and scrambled
to reach the cars, or buildings, rooms of dry safety.
And yet upon turning my attention back to what mattered,
I saw thet he was still standing proudly beside me.
In a suit of black slowly turning blacker
as the rain fell down and caught upon his cheeks.
His smile remained and his eyes held only laughter
as he walked closer and wrapped his arms around me.



Fanned out fingers catching breezes,
a dozen thoughts provoked without valid reasons.
Tresses of hair tousled by seasons;
as if I could forget you are my heart.

A glance over the edge of a skyscraper,
the silent, lost eyes of a dreaming gazer;
tossed by the wind as light as paper.
Distractions capture dreamers like a web.

And chained by eerie obligation
held unreliably by justification.
Perhaps not more than sickly-sweet sedation
and a fall into the sky.

Thrown beyond all inhibition,
hair thrown back in new disposition.
Eyes stitched shut, wary elation;
will a savior come cease this fall?

A parachute cut short of strings,
a struggle with more mortal things–
wed to Grim with eternal rings,
but forever alive in spirit, in soul.

A fool, trapped blind in swollen bliss.
Steady clouds that shed a mist.
Forgotten sorrow traded for happiness,
until eyes open once more.

Pavement spread like grain and grass,
unspoken truce of shattered glass
and shattered bone may come to pass.
Closer, closer, meters away.

Heart speeds, jumps out of my chest,
eyes washed white, and black, the rest.
Moon cataracts, for which I’m blessed;
that I might not watch myself crumple.

Arms thrown out, entrapping me.
And from the ground, only a couple feet,
but in his arms where I’m supposed to be–
my Superman.

My Role in the World


If all the world is a stage:

Then I must be a bard.
Whispering sweet echoes
of words that never meant anything,
a fictional story from deceitful lips.
A promised tale of a forbidden kiss,
a song of glass shattered in cold white loss.
The quiet cooled, the coin my cost.
The whole world an audience
with clapping hands
or perhaps with scorn
for they don’t understand.
And scowls profaning cheeks
with soft pink blush,
shouting obscenities
that make me flush.

Then I must be an actress
with a painted face.
A smile, and tears
that I cannot erase.
A gown of gold, a crown of silver
in my hair,
and audience below me
without a care.
With other thoughts in mind
than who I really am.
Only eyes for the girl
that I must pretend.
And eyes for the man
that I do not love,
but the character I play
is written to must.

Then I must sing
with a sheltered voice.
Tempered too sharp,
feet without poise.
Words that mean less
than they do to me.
Because my audience
is too blind to see.
Heart on heart, I stand,
pouring out my soul;
if all the world’s a stage
then I must have no role.



The way we kiss when caught in traffic,
the stolen moments I keep captive;
in memories, in soft-spoken dreams
come true.

The heart you hold in open hands,
the moment you start to understand,
I’ve never known a love
quite like for you.

The secrets we hold close between,
my soul for you, your heart for me.
A smile shared in silent-held

The smell of you upon my clothes,
the parts of you that no one knows.
No other woman could
ever feel such bliss.

The moments spent in a little world
made only for us, by only word,
no intruders,
no one left to care.

The moments just after you have gone,
the lingered essence that still lives on.
And I desperately wish
that you could still be there.

Just Another Chapter


Just another mark of ink
upon a blank white page.
Stained in an eerie permanence
that I might not erase my mistakes.
Soiled with the arrogance
of another author’s place,
pulling at the strings in my life
without regard or taste.

Fingers tapping softly
with the sure-footed step
of the padded wolf,
the cunning of a fox,
the silence of a cricket,
crying out for reprieve.
How can I call this

Grasping at memories that flee my mind,
reaching for friends I’ve long left behind.
Foreseeing a future too far out of sight,
replaying a past that I still cannot fight.

Just another chapter in my book,
just another lesson
that I never took.
Just another mention
of a name that meant the world
in between words
that described how he walked away.

Just another chapter in my life.

Just another memory taken by tide.
Just another person stopped in time
with a hope that dissolved with any fate
and a life that returned when I misconstrued the same,
only this time, the boy to blame
who managed to heal my heart again,
loved me with all of his.

Just another chapter in the book.

And yet, I stop my author dead in her frightened tracks.
I steal her pen and snap the thing in half.
I tell her that I’m never going back.
That I’ll never return to that Hell-hole of a past.
That her finishing words to that chapter were her last.

This is my novel now.

And I’m rewriting the ending.

In the end, the character falls in love.
In the end she meets the man who steals her heart.
In the end, she is happy, with all of her soul,
in the end, she is whole, like the start.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not the one writing out my life. As if, someone in some cosmic universe was writing my story for me. And, please do excuse my language, for a time, she was doing a damn shitty job. My author must have been sadistic and angry at me for some incomprehensible reason. And yet, here I am, happy. I’m sick of everything else dictating the way I live my life. These are my days, my chapters, to rewrite as I please. I can’t change the past. But I can decide the future, and I can decide to live the way I want to.

A Sigh of Lamentation


Upon a night of autumn cool
I took heed of curious song.
As soft as breeze through treetops,
yet it did not last too long.
And as tumescent as a sunset
clad with a blanket of orange clouds.
Choking on a swelling throat;
as I listened, it grew loud.

I stepped outside into a tempest,
or the remnants of where the tempest had been.
Trees fallen over, shingles torn and scattered
and found myself uneasy again.
A dead calm in the silence,
the air stagnant and stale.
A taste of bitter tedium,
threatening and bare.

A simple oak in the yard,
where dozens of others once stood.
But worn, torn, and tortured now,
the ground littered with splintered wood.
And beneath the great oak,
where the song was derived
lay a hag of a woman
with madness etched in her eyes.

Her hair fell as string,
loose and silver long strands.
Her chest heaved as she moaned
as if she could not understand.
Her eyes grew wild as I neared,
she reared on hands and her knees,
backed away from me quickly
as if the frightening one here was me.

She shrieked a long howl,
with her eyes closing so tight.
I put my hands out
and asked if she was alright.
She drew away from my touch
and hissed as I spoke.
Screamed yet again
but her rabid voice broke.

She looked at her hands,
her gnarled fingers with fear.
She shivered and shook
and asked, “why am I here?”
Her hands clasped together
as she turned back to me,
inching backwards with care
and heaving breaths silently.

I asked her what was wrong,
if she needed my help.
She stared for a moment
then leaped back with a yelp.
Fell to the ground
with a thud in the grass.
Cried mournfully
with a voice shattering glass.

I kneeled down beside her
and held out my hand.
She stared once again
with eyes that did not comprehend.
“Gone,” she said softly.
“All gone in a blink.”
I hesitated a moment,
wondering what to think.

What to make of this woman
with tangled silver hair.
What to make of this hag
who had just appeared there.
“Stop!” she screamed, frightened.
“Please, haunt me no more!”
Now I was frightened
quite more than before.

She sighed softly, crying,
tears streaking grey cheeks.
Made a whimpering sound
that made her seem so small and so weak.
She stood, like a ghost,
pale white as the snow.
“I shall tell you the truth,
and then I shall go.”

“You will lose who you love,
keep him close, keep him safe.”
I stared blankly at the woman
and watched her evaporate.
Into the stale air,
cells scattered and disappeared,
and soon it had seemed
that she had never been here.

Two months to the day,
my love died of no cause.
My banshee spent nights
singing lamenting songs.
Out my window, under oak,
she wept sorrowful tears.
Spent with my love beside her
for the following years.

I fled my dark ghosts,
into phantom lands of city,
believing that my love and my hag
would not follow me.
But the howls spent the nights
lamenting dusk after dusk,
until the night I left too
long after my life left rust.

And in death, I joined hands,
with the woman and the man.
Became a part of the veil,
and could finally understand.

I’ve always been very interested in old folklore, especially the tale of the Irish Banshee. Now granted, I lead the story somewhat askew in this. Normally a banshee will only appear when a family member is to die, but this is another trial chapter that I never finished and decided to turn into a poem instead.

To go ahead and clarify, no one I love has died lately. To tell the truth, I’ve never had anyone truly close to me die. My great-grandmother died when I was six, but I scarcely remember her. I just love the folklore of the banshee. It’s one of those stories I’ve been told and reading about ever since I was little, and it’s been ingrained in me. Personally, I’m hoping the show Supernatural does and episode on it. They’ve been everywhere from Heaven to Hell and back (several times) and they can’t find a banshee? Come on.

The Master in the Sky


Her head holds high
on fish-line taut
with eyes that do not see.

Her arms to each side
never moving, not a motion;
everything is out of reach.

Her feet tread water,
splash clumsily in
but she cannot swim back to the shore.

Once, she was free
without puppet strings, or dark masters;
once, but forever nevermore.

As a kid, there is very little that is worse than being told no. As a teenager, I feel that the urge for independence is even greater. I cannot speak for the adult population, but I can speak from experience. I am a stubborn person. Tell me no, and I’ll do it. Tell me I can’t, and I’ll find a way. I have a bad habit of rebellion, to the point of lying, and cheating, and screaming, and fighting to get what I want. I guess I’m a little more than spoiled.

But what happens when you can’t get what you want? When all your life, you have been guided by the will of others. No control over any situation in your life. As I’ve already said in a previous post, I am petrified of losing control, so the idea of having my life planned out for me by someone else infuriates me.

And so, as an ode to all of the evil puppet masters of the world, and a song of sorrow to all of the puppets, I wrote this. At about two in the morning. While half asleep.

The Slave of Dusk


Broken shackles and links of chain
clatter on concrete walls.
Her feet slide one in place of the other
as she passes other, long-empty stalls.

She is free.
They say.

Her steps echo boundless to ceilings and floor,
and ricochet off iron bars.
She steps out of her prison to a placid night
pockmarked with long-gone stars.

She had hoped
to see the sun.

The luminescent moon is veiled
by wisps of audacious cloud.
Heaven, which seemed so close once upon a time,
seems so far away to her now.

The angels bear her
no light.

Phantom hounds from Hell stalk behind,
padding on well-worn paws.
Nipping at her ankles, catching her broken chains,
tearing her leg-flesh raw.

They will
never go.

Ghosts of nameless faces follow,
seemingly her entourage.
But guards, instead, and inescapable
and as elusive as her will’s mirage.

They are taking her
despite the truth.

To the edge of abyss, and so far down,
into a void unknown.
None return, and none survive
the execution of such renown.

She is

A crowd has gathered, with gapes of awe,
and laughter to appease.
And her captor in his golden crown,
a royal, ostentatious beast.

He will not

He has given them a show,
but the best is yet to come.
The crowd yearns for blood, for death, and flesh
and glistening, visible bone.

She will not

Her eyes scan the crowd, pick out those she knew,
who turn away in shame.
“Good,” she thinks. “Feel regret for this,
mourn for your eternal blame.”

She hates these
people the most.

And then, she finds him, still a boy,
more youthful now than before.
His eyes are wide, tears stain his cheeks
and his soul fights a hidden war.

She is

“Any last words?” the proud king asks,
a glee behind his smirk.
She shakes her head and takes her place,
stifling her fear and mirth.

She is

Isn’t she?

Her eyes find him, her only love,
stepping forward in the crowd.
Closer to where she now kneels,
closer, closer now.

Not him.

She is assured.

The phantom dogs stop barking,
ghosts stifle their phantasmal howls.
The sword is raised, the edge poised down,
the wind through spirits growls.

Not him.
Please not him.

“You die for your crime, in accordance to law,”
the king says with smile.
Ashes curl in crevices of his black crown,
and his teeth rot grey and vile.

She has made
no crime.

But in this court?
She will lie.

For him.

The boy steps forward, pushes past ghosts,
kicks at the hounds that snarl.
“Innocent!” he declares of her,
“With me you have your quarrel!”

Stop now.

The ghost king laughs. The ghost king heaves.
He coughs up soot and ash.
“This girl is sent to death for you,
and yet you still rehash the past?”

She loves

But she doesn’t
want this.

“She is sentenced for her crime,” the ghost king says.
“She will die as is set by the law.”
She watches the boy as he draws closer still,
the words catching in his throat and his jaw.

He is

“Take my life, if you must,” she says standing up,
her arms spread in front of the boy.
“Take everything I own, my heart and my soul,
but don’t take the boy that I love.”

Don’t take

The sword raised and poised, so close to her heart
lusting after her blood and her pain,
but if she can save him, if his life might be spared,
she will take whatever may come her way.

She cannot
survive without him.

She closes her eyes, and feels herself spill,
hot tears streaming tracks down her cheeks.
She feels herself fall to the ground with a thud,
and she feels the cool sting of the breeze.

It is cold.
She is cold.

She feels his hands fumble, closing fingers over wounds
as he tries to stop the blood in its tracks.
She feels herself weaken, but stronger somehow.
She feels herself seep through the cracks.

She loves

She feels her bitter sorrow washing away
with what feels like the rain from the sky.
She feels the surprise in her audience before her,
she feels the weight of all the ghost eyes.

She is

She feels the chains on her wrists and ankles
turn to ash and then wither away.
She hears the boy’s screams, distant and mournful,
as he begs desperately that she stay.

But she
has faded.

And she loves him.

So it’s okay.

Alright, alright. I know this is exceedingly long. I began with the thought to have about four stanzas. I thought I could get the story out in that amount of time, but apparently not. And there’s not really a huge moral to the story short of self-sacrifice. This was again, just another one of my strange dreams. Strangely enough, I was one of the ghost people, looking on as a girl who looked suspiciously like me was sentenced to death for a crime that the love of her life committed. Because she loved him, she (of course) took the penalty to protect him (isn’t that what you do for someone you love), but he wouldn’t allow it without a fight.

I really should see someone about these dreams…

The Flames of Passion


With a flicker that cast shadows sorrowfully dancing,
and a mourning that cast light in empty rooms
among the shards of silvered mirror shattered upon the floor
I tread with feet that knew no bounds and bled new wounds.
I glanced down to watch the stones below me laughing,
as if they knew a secret I might never see.
A breeze whistled through windows there,
and I watched as the walls began closing in on me.

The candle burst and crackled, flame climbing to the sky,
fear ran deep beneath the fires, burning softly with a sigh.
And struggles to live without a cause, and struggles to survive.
Until it falls to unforgiving stone, and slowly, it’s snuffed and dies.
And catches before completely gone, in timbers carelessly placed,
by the last nobody that may have lived here, whom I can no longer trace.
And burns much brighter than the sun, though misplaced it may be,
a trance of passion in fluorescent flames, somehow it captures me.

And I think of you, I think of this,
I remember who I was.
I remember how you’ve changed me so,
and stolen my once sole cause.
How the fires of my old flame
burned low, then down to none,
and when you walked into my life,
sadly, they were gone.

I love you darling, with all my heart. And I know I always will,
but you’ve stolen who I used to be, and molded me with your spell.
I shall never speak of my passion lost, or my reach to re-attain
all of the things that once defined me, but appear now less than inane.
I fear I may never burn as brightly as the fire that I once was,
but as a child, I may find more than what once was only cause.

Passion once, and passion lost,
and candles that burned out.
And hopeless thought to rekindle them
as it is useless now.
I’m not that girl, might never be,
can’t attain all that I used to.
But I’ll let that passion burn and die,
if it means I can still love you.

Pretty self-explanatory, but this is about sacrifice. Giving up what you love most for the person you love. While I do believe sacrifice is important, I also believe whole-heartedly that you should never give yourself up for someone else, no matter how much you love that person. That’s not what this is saying. It’s more, letting go of the thing that defines you so that you can define yourself. And in the process, shifting the passion you had for what you loved to the person you love.