I've let you live a lie. Or, I guess, a lie while I lived my life. You just don't get it do you? The wind blows day after day and it gets colder and colder day after day, and my God you didn't change a bit did you? I feel like smoke after fires are lit. Freedom means nothing if you don't chase it, and frankly I've found the more I talk to you the more I need it. It's like a drug that I went into rehab for, but escaped with all the glory of a manic addict, drunk on false power and high off of five hundred miles an hour. The storm that kept me safe refuses to let me sleep as I climb ladder after ladder, praying the top is within reach, because the drop below is a short fall compared to the journey I've left behind.
Reach for the stars they say, but I know when you fall on clouds that they don't hold you like they said they do. Trust me, they don't. Those clouds scream things at you as you fall through their thin facades and violently reach the ground, and I'll tell you now that you were one of those clouds, full of lightning threatening to strike me with words like thunder that kept me nice, neat, and under.
Look. Look at me now, pen in hand, my greatest weapon and yet... I am still controlled. Controlled by not wanting to hurt you even though that's what you used to do to me. It's nothing new. But, I'm still free and forgive me, but you'll never catch me.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Blog # 18 - The Ibis
In the sun-warmed and humid Orlando, Florida,
Mid-afternoon has set itself in,
And in the midst of Hollywood Studios,
There is an ibis.
He has made a killing on tourist food
Fed by the rebels who disregard signs.
I see this ibis, though I don't feed it,
And realize how far I am from home.
He struts around, for this is where he belongs
And he is unaware.
He looks at me. He doesn't know me.
And yet I stare back wondering if he did.
He turns away,
Back to the food the rebels throw.
He's so different than what I know,
For tropical birds live in the tropics,
And not in the north.
His white feathers lie still
While he eats with a bubblegum pink beak.
The humidity sets in around me.
It doesn't bother him at all.
And all of the bugs,
That have bothered me since day one
Simply dance.
Mid-afternoon has set itself in,
And in the midst of Hollywood Studios,
There is an ibis.
He has made a killing on tourist food
Fed by the rebels who disregard signs.
I see this ibis, though I don't feed it,
And realize how far I am from home.
He struts around, for this is where he belongs
And he is unaware.
He looks at me. He doesn't know me.
And yet I stare back wondering if he did.
He turns away,
Back to the food the rebels throw.
He's so different than what I know,
For tropical birds live in the tropics,
And not in the north.
His white feathers lie still
While he eats with a bubblegum pink beak.
The humidity sets in around me.
It doesn't bother him at all.
And all of the bugs,
That have bothered me since day one
Simply dance.
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