I close my eyes and reach down,

deep inside myself, 

where it’s quiet,

        for a while,

but the deeper I go the louder it gets. 

The air bends around me squeezing my face

 as the thoughts I hide so carefully from

bloom sticky and black in front of my eyes,

and I panicgrab at the fading pieces of reflected light wondering

why they change colors,

and why they weep, 

and try to ignore the bent and rusting hooks,

that seize with greed,

stringing a feast of regret like forgotten laundry.

And I see that the broken spaces have filled themselves

with any jumble sale junk

strong enough to keep the walls from closing in, 

from taking the flower bouquets of happy memories with them,

to burn as an offering.

I weave the last of the wilting flowers into my hair and pull myself up,

 inch by inch,

knowing I never should have gone back,

knowing that the deep inside is made of teeth

 and crooking fingers that beckon but do not welcome,

and will not leave me in the same condition as when,

I took that moment hostage,

and closed my eyes,






About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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