august 15th

when I think about then
I see myself sitting by a blue window
looking at a wild glooming garden
with the smell of coffee hanging in the air
captured inbetween my hands
I will gaze over to floors and walls covered
in patterns of colours indefinable
scraps of my mind on yellow paper
clustered all around
and miles of crisp white canvas waiting
and all I can see is me
in these tiny walls
that would be mine
merely falling apart
holding each other
to hold on

and hold on to my brushes

cloak

I did all those things
bended a thousand ways
almost too many to
stand up straight again
and only
so they’d like
the phantom I was creating
so they’d think
the mask I put on
was a pretty one
so they’d never see
the crackling lines
that were wandering down
from my eyes

squares and streets

I was standing in a sea of brown squares and empty walls.
When did all the scraps and pieces get pushed into those cold boxes? Like they meant nothing – were all the same – they threw her things in cartons and sealed them from the daylight. The thought that her books, her brushes, but never her would see these walls; it spread out in my mind, circling in my head it fell to my stomach.
I cut open the brown tape; reached in; put things in their new place. Again and again.
I remember thinking how everyone always says new beginnings were exciting. And yes, there were new streets and webs to get lost in and tiny caf├ęs to breath in and people to see with, but grief has the great power to overshadow those bits of magic I could find in the streets I saw laying empty before me.

june 5th

and I was so ready. So ready to just let loose and really I just craved to twirl around without a care in the world and to
just let go.
And I tried and I hoped and waited.
But it wouldn’t get better
and so I went home without my heart high in the sky – with my hopes let low –
when I opened the door I played the tunes I was craving, danced through my tiny room and just lay down on my fuzzy floor and bumped my feet into the air along with the music dwelling from the corner.

a childhood’s movies

I remember sitting in my grandpa’s big soft chair before the flickering screen – watching the same stories and tales again and again.
And years later I find them again and find myself watching them. And I crouch in front of the monitor watching the colourful scribbling – giggling like the innocent child I used to be. I feel so homey with that adoring little grin on my face. It’s amazing how these familiar stories flushed back all the memories my little eyes collected there; how that one story can bring back the entire sense of my childhood there in that little blue house.

with them

People were always happy there – happy around them.
She always brought out the best in people – especially him. She had a way to see the best however deep it may be hidden from your own eyes. She’d try guide you to open them. He’d always try to make people laugh and smile. Stubborn and short-tempered at times, yet he had this way to seem like he’d never be serious -chanting rhymes, doing jokes, playing games; always playing games.
Undoubtedly, they held a lot of happy moments; of others too.

promised

But she said she’d never leave; I’d never be alone. She said she’d be there to see me graduate, stand there like the proudest mom, because it’d be my name read aloud.
She said she’d be right next to me when I’d promise my life in white.
She said she would take the grand kids out to see this world.
She promised all these things. She promised me an eternity with her by my side.
She told me so

and my big eyes believed her.

red painting

She was an artist. She painted line for line; stroke for stroke; more and more to the picture on her arms. She had done with such percision – soft and harsh; deep and light. They all added to the masterpiece she was creating.
It was to die for.
And to top it all off, finish what she had started, she drew the final line. A last pop of colour. A splash of red running from her hand down the arm. As she was done she signed it with just one tear.

the lies I have made

It is all that is left me – that and the mere image in my mind, although I fear that it is corrupted by the loving eyes of the child that I was. Unknowing of what I saw I took it all in and painted it in different colours – protecting me from reality. For it was raw and I could not take it.

– just a relict of my past

a reminder of who I was

and who I am