The Mirror Cracked From Side to Side

I woke up to the setting sun
For you to say my world was done
Run home, run home

I went home to find oblivion
Painted in faces of porcelain
Cracked from side to side
I didn't do it, I didn't do it

So many excuses buried
let me find them and wrap them up
Tiny presents just for you, just for you
Too many fraying strands
Life strings breaking up
broken blue

I fell asleep to a quaking earth
For you to haunt my dreams from birth
Come back, come back

I came back to find a trouble light
Screaming give me back the night
Tainted for evermore
I didn't do it, I didn't do it

So many lands buried
Can you find them? Mottled stones
Crushed in cardboard boxes, paper zoo
Too many open hands
Blessings bleeding bones
Red and blue

So many breathless buried
I didn't do it, I didn't do it
Broken blue
So many haunted buried
Red and blue
I didn't do it, I didn't do it
Just for you
I swear

3:00 AM Dreaming

It was like all I wanted was for the sun to come up and erase these memories with a landscape of new lies. As if somehow this darkness was too peaceful, too real. I thought I could get past this losing and this disappointment if one more day came and laughed at me in all its warmth and brilliance. Maybe I was right, maybe that daylight would pull me through and drag me along step by step. But I couldn't make it. I was only half way through the night before I needed the sun to fool me, to let ignorance be bliss- or at least indifference. Instead I had the moon glaring at me from her hell hole sky, accusing me of all my disregards and failures. I had the stars begging me to lie with them. I felt like I had little choice. I could not continue moving through each day disappointing people, disappointing the animals and landscapes I vowed to save. I just couldn't do it all and everyday I was hurting more than I was helping. And everyday my heart was growing colder. My mind was screaming at me, crying out to my soul, taking everyone's twisted lies and ripping them into tiny shards of ice that stabbed into my core. I couldn't deal with it any more. I walked into the warm air and found the highest place I could. The stars seemed a lot closer. A gentle breeze caressed my cheek but left a waft of cheap smoke and car exhaust polluting its maternal embrace. To hell with you, I whispered. And then I jumped.

That Day

I was drowned before I was sunk
Gone before I was leaving
Hollow before I'd been emptied
Breathless before I quit breathing

In the Ocean

In the ocean I saw her
A frail wisp of a wave
A silver bodied dolphin
That I forgot to save
I saw her in the ocean
I wish I hadn't though
A blackened hollow apple
Frozen in the snow
In the ocean I did see her
I swear it to be true
A golden haloed angel
That fell into the blue
I did see her in the ocean
So many miles away
A dingy brown eyed gypsy
That I once turned away
I look for her in the ocean
The part of my soul lost
A sickly whitened memory
That to the sea I tossed
In the ocean I look for her
A fallen shooting star
A purple midnight aster
That I left on the tar
In the ocean I found her
A crimson coated shell
A keepsake from a rainy walk
That from my pocket fell
I found her in the ocean
Grey she was to my despair
My bright lightning beauty
That had lost all her hair

Shallow Hearts

I stared at the Christmas card emotionless and not really absorbing the message sent. It was kind, to be sure, but it was unwarranted. Then there was the whole self-centered note that was too much in contrast with the generosity of the holiday season. I looked at the final words in carefully-scrawled red pen: "P.S. Please tell me what you do with this gift." I turn the card over, grab one of the many pens around and write in messy black: "Due to the recent economy 20 bucks was not enough to pay for paper or postage. I am in fact lucky to have this pen. As for the McDonald's coupons- they do very little to feed a vegetarian without a car. Thank you for your yearly contribution to my well being. Merry Christmas." I then reseal the envelope and drive it back to the post office- dropping the meaningless twenty dollars and coupons into a donation box for kids who actually need them. I tell the man that a letter had arrived in my mail box that was not for me. I'd never heard of that man in my life. It was obviously some mistake. He says they'll send it back to the return address. I go home for a dinner of stuffed chicken. It was the best meal I'd had in a long time.

Bedtime Story

The cat didn't understand why it couldn't go sailing. It couldn't swim well but that was a skill a number of sailors lacked. It knew all about ships and it liked water well enough but every time it asked a captain if it could join the crew the man shook his head and nudged it aside. Their boats didn't have any rats, they were small vessels for delivering cargo and were always kept exceptionally clean. The cat was becoming increasingly depressed and mewing at any passerby on the docks. "I just want to go sailing" it said. It was by a park and there were little toy sail boats gliding through the water. It glared in envy at the imaginary passengers under the fluttering white sails that looked so much like the wings of the dove it caught yesterday. The cat pounced. It fell into a downpour and slept shaking on someone's doorstep. In the morning it was sunny. A woman came out and chased it away. It was hungry. A little girl put out a can of tuna and watched it. The cat didn't let her touch it. The can was only half finished when a mongrel appeared and chased the cat away. Then the cat remembered it wanted to go sailing. It sat at the dock as the last boat drifted away in the sunset. The cat curled up in the sky and left one eye open in case the dog returned. The crescent of the eye glowed in the reflection of the street lamps. The sailors blessed it for the light it brought into the night. The cat never got to go sailing.

Oh dark night do you live here still?

They claimed we lost you
A long time ago
When the West was conquered
And the North tainted
They claimed you disappeared
Even before
Moonlight was pondered
Stars were named
And sunrise blessed
But me, I still think you wander
Somewhere in these streets
A gentle blanket
For a child
With eyes overwhelmed by color
Lights and sounds
Who merely wishes
To rest

We Were All Misguided Until You Pulled the Trigger

It's not that I don't love you, it's just that I can't look into your face without remembering how you left me in the cold and dark. How you let the storm swallow me. How you never checked to see if I'd survived. How you just assumed I'd be back. How you called letting me go "caring." Pride is a terribly powerful force, but mine needs to be cut down sometimes. You should have pulled me back. It would have been better in the end. Right?
I can still feel the damp in my bones, the weakness in my body. Will I ever recover from this? I've tried ignoring the emotional hurt because this physical one has come up and surprised me. I had sleeping sickness before my heart thawed and began complaining. I couldn't fall asleep as I tossed and turned with an unknown flu. When finally I slipped away my dreams held me captive. I'd wake and scream out to the sunlight, lift up a hand in protest, but there was no one there to grasp it and down I fell again into a torturous dreamland where you wanted even more from me but where you held me closer than ever you'd be able to in this waking world.
I had no other option. I don't think you understood. I had miles of downcast glances to get angry. You had miles of conversation to become forgetful. For me the miles weren't enough. Disappointment wrapped on my door when, safe and warm, I heard not a word. The anger never came. At least not in earnest. I may have watched it pass by in the streets on a handful of occasions but its destination was elsewhere.
And still I wait, but I know the greeting I shall receive when my face again emerges before your own. Empty in its warmth. Meaningless. Pleading care, loyalty, and guidance. What a glorious figure you are, such an idle, such a patronymic mentor. But how can you claim to take me under your wing when all you do is fly me to the highest cliffs and let me fall. And maybe I do survive but I don't need to be pushed. I don't need to be pushed.
It's not that I don't love you. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. It's just a person gets tired of falling off cliffs, tired of watching her hopes crash against the rocks as she walks on. Every time I see you I can hear them shattering. You may have inspired me, you may have built my past, but every second you are destroying my future.

Spring Cleaning

Today I found the candy wrappers I had saved incase somewhere along the road I found the hopes and dreams I used to have. I stared at them for a while, considering all their crumpled bodies had meant to me. Then I scooped them up and let them flutter into the trash. Out of my life. Forever.

Midnight Hillsides

"You really are a creature of the night, aren't you?"
"Only because no one else is. I'm not afraid of the dark." They were sitting on the edge of the roof, three stories above the sidewalks and pavement of the busy cab-calling night life below.
"It's like we're flying over them. This is so cool. I bet the view is amazing in the daytime."
"Yeah, sunrise is spectacular."
"I'd just be afraid someone would see me."
"They can't, we're too boxed in that the angles are all wrong so they'd have to be pretty far away. People never look up anyways."
"How did you find this place?"
"It just sort of happened. It's a good roof, there are a couple others to equal it but not many."
"You really know all the secrets to this place huh?"
"Hmmm." She smiled quietly in the dark, breathing in the freshness of the spring air.
"It's a good escape."
"I'm surprised you even showed me."
"Yeah, well, I trust you not to ruin it."
"No, I understand, sometimes it's just too much being here and always being around other people. There has to be a break somewhere."
"I miss my mountains. Here I can see them- or at least envision them at night. Here they don't seem so far away."

A Letter to the Eternal

Dear Wind,
Sail me with your clouds
Let us race across the sky
Catch me in your wings
On your back let me fly
Pull me towards your moon
And lift me as your dust
Ghost me into nothingness
Woo me into trust
Very truly yours,
Stuck Upon the Ground

Falling Apart Like a Good Girl

"You can walk" He says. His voice falls flat, emotionless.
She stares at him for a moment, suddenly knocked off stride. Every muscle in her quivers and a new hollowness rises up in her chest in that terrible virus known as doubt. She then turns away and walks out the door and into the cold night. There's a slight drizzle that catches on her hair and sparkles under the glow from the night life. Echoes of live bands and drunken shouts reach the main street and taxis race by in a scramble to snatch up every penny from the travelers. But she walks as if the street is silent, as if she's caught in a bubble as a ghost unable to touch the real world. She is surrounded by people, but she is entirely alone.

Who loves the sun?

"Walking in the rain is for twelve year olds." He said.
"If we became unable to appreciate beauty the older we got then we'd all want to die before we turned thirteen." She replied with glassy eyes.
"I don't need to repeat an experience I already understand."
"That's a bit closed-minded."
"You're very naive."
And so she turned away and vowed out of pride to never let a drop of rain fall upon her skin again. He quickly forgot. And eventually she wilted.
Every time it rained he had a vague recollection of a dehydrated flower- but it never made much sense to him. He quickly forgot.

Gamenophyte in a Bubble (fern)

The Grand Piano

This is a work in progress for my music class. It is a creative essay based on a concert I went to of a very famous pianist.

The lights went down and the solitary grand piano glowed expectantly. The murmur of the crowd grew to a faint echoing as all attention shifted towards the instrument. The piano, suddenly under extreme scrutiny, shivered and leaned towards the sound panels that were blocking any possible escape through the windows. A coin dropped and released its high-pitched flurry of noise before resting on the floor. Everyone was staring and waiting. All the gleaming black and white of the piano could do was wait and hope for the best.
Finally the piano’s partner showed his face. He walked slowly onto the golden stage, as an ivory figure dressed in ebony. He approached the instrument deliberately but humbly with only a flitter of a glance towards the rustling audience. The piano took a breath as the man sat down on the dark cushion placed before it on four spindly legs. The expectation of the audience was forgotten as musician and instrument warmed in their connection. Silence. And then…
He began with his left hand as if testing the waters with a limb that would not be dearly missed should it be burned or frozen. He skipped along a major chord as sound waves erupted into a melody known as “Chaconne”. The tune itself meant ‘pretty’ but it was not the music so much as the flow between pianist and piano that was beautiful. It didn’t take long until his right hand had agreed to take a chance and leap in as well. Together they jumped across the notes like they were running up staircases.
He did not have the monochromatic paper in front of him, nor did he even seem to recognize the pattern of depressed notes before him, instead the figures danced across his mind as shadows of sound flowing as naturally and uncontrollably as a dream. The two dark figures became wrapped up in each other’s existence as black cut off into white space and cream cut into midnight again. They pulled away from the ochre that gleamed on the floor that prevented them from dispersing with the pulses of sound. They shut out the glowing rose and gold of the faces in the crowd from which bright eyes of admiration shone. They were in their two toned world allowing us to see into their window and listen to the enchanting beauty of their unified voice.
Then the music sped up and the dynamics changed. The notes thundered through the music hall and both demanded attention and expressed control. His hands raised and pounced upon the keys, scampering up and down upon their sleek surface. He rocked back and forth keeping a tempo with the movement along the keys. He might tell you later how he feels in control, how he is always dictating what is needed from the piano. He would mention the respect he feels for the bold material beneath his hands but never fail to qualify that as a respect held by an authority. But now, in this moment of observation- of live brilliance- the connection is clearly reversed. His fingertips are pulled delicately along the keyboard but they are pulled nonetheless.
He holds his breath as the movement of his fingers leads to a cross of his left wrist over his right. The sound is on the verge of overwhelming as the notes cascade past each other rolling and dodging across scales. His fingers are frantically trying to keep up with the score streaming through his mind and ringing in the piano’s heart. They are like racehorses pushing past their limits and everyone is watching and waiting, in both horror and awe, for their legs to break. The left hand suddenly reins in and demands with deep, contrasting chords for the crescendo to slow into a gentle trot. The man shakes upon each blow, his breath leaving his body with every request for a decreased speed. Finally the attacks are left to fade and an echo of silence creeps across the keys before a soft melody returns.
The left hand slows into chords as the right taps across soft individual notes that roll up and down across the pitches. They are tumbling through a rainstorm. The individual drops splatter into the audience, the thunder rolls closer, the lightening warns of the change in dynamics ahead. The wind builds as half notes become quarter notes and eighth notes become sixteenth notes. The storm arrives and the left hand becomes the striking lightning that races then jolts through the sky. The right hand flutters like a quaking aspen.
When listening closely a heartbeat can be heard beneath this chaos. The man’s foot is pulsing out the rhythm. It is the only constant in a variable environment. It is the only escape from the frenzy above it. It is the only thing holding the sound on the ground. The thud of the pedal is relied upon, embraced, and incorporated in the breath of both the man and the music. It helps pull the tempo back down.
As the notes slow the right hand drops to around middle C and briefly plays alone. Its twin adds in a mellow chord once in a while. It’s time for the final kill. The fingers spot the prey and chase the notes, pounding into them for traction before making one last pounce with all of their expendable energy. The hands rest there for a moment to ensure the demise of their victim- the tune that filled the hall just seconds before- and then drop from the instrument. The man leans back and gets up stiffly for a bow. The audience takes a breath then the applause begins. His left hand holds the top of the piano. He stares off into some unknown space.

Trapped Under a Cat's Paw

This is just a stream of consciousness piece:

There's something evil caught in my throat forming nets of twigs and wires as I sleep constantly longing for that silence that falls apart from vibrations bouncing and sliding across the night sky and perhaps that darkness lies in my veins and wishes to seep into that cool air but maybe it lies between the willows and sweeps out from under the elms to tackle the energy in my shadow as I step carefully over the new born dead grass just revealed to our eyes as it screams 'I swear, I do exist and I want to live' but we hardly hear those cries as we tramp slowly over its crushed body with no mercy and no desire to cease in our actions and so the bird funerals and oak birthdays pass as a cloud chasing a storm and I lie beneath you, my wave of sunlight, and laugh of day lilies, and I dream of dark feathers stuck in the mud and bright eyes clawing through the stale florescence of a burning light bulb alone in a room with no windows and no doors- at least none we ever look out of- at least none we ever notice- at least none that ever seem to take us beyond this mundane and this terror and the overarching question of the hummingbird trapped under a cat's paw- 'why?'

The Arrival

The Arrival

Won’t you let me in
Dear friend?
It’s rather cold out here
And there’s a frost that’s beginning
To bite onto my ears

Won’t you open the door
Kind sir?
You are passing right by
And there’s no great difference
In the tolerance of you or I

Won’t you come this way
Sweet madam?
Take pity on a poor cat
And hold me in your fur-coated arms
Give me a gentle pat

Won’t you let them know
Dumb dog?
There’s a king at their door
And he will not take being treated such
And will ask kindly no more!

Shadow Lines

I've decided I need a place to compile all of the creativity that keeps pushing against my skull. This seems like the perfect place to do it. I've named this shadow lines because it can apply both to writing and artwork. The address is 'shadowlie' because not only was 'shadowlines' not available but because of the elusiveness of shadows. Any line drawn to represent a shadow is essentially a lie. Any thing I write here is merely for the joy of writing and I hope to use this as a way to learn how to compose better. I'd love comments because that will help me improve. All the best dear follower, I hope you can enjoy what you find here.
*In a strange coincidence today I discovered that Conrad has written a short story by the title "Shadow-Lines." I bought the book it is in. It will be interesting to see if I can relate to that story or not...