My grasp of reality
for I know
I am filled with questions
which do not deserve asking
for they are empty voids
to fill them.
Global warming is an explosive affair between Earth and the Cosmos.
Each year increases by one degree
leaving little hope for cool weather,
raising a need for long, sodden winters.
Each year keeps getting hotter,
we seek new swimming holes.
Our longing for a sodden winter swells,
wishing for water to help our rivers.
Old swimming holes are dry up,
water everywhere is dwindling.
We’re left wondering over the lack of rain,
Which would inevitably cool our summers.
As our supply of water decreases
food sources become scarce.
Faced with hell-hot summers,
there is little hope for rain.
Food is in short supply
people are anxious,
“We need more than hope for water!”
The temperature is rising.
The love affair gets heated
temperatures are soaring,
There is little hope for cool weather.
I crave deep grey
reflecting tempestuous motion.
Wind emoting passionate
disarray and commotion,
A lost soul sees anger
mistaking the crashing
Internal breaks in sanity
left reeling on shore
away from the craving
a captive seeking more.
Coffee simulates the synaptic response
you typically get
out of sleeping enough,
I tend to like
caffeine jolted fires
warming my bones from within
especially when my soul is cold
from the outside in.
Life is so sweet and simple
when wrapped in your arms,
late at night,
then into the morning,
as I delve into paradise.
I miss your surroundings
before you were aware of “us”.
I am tearing at the seams-
an unkempt doll with ragged edges
shifting from wooden foot
to foot, uncomfortable without skin.
I asked you to stop looking
if you refuse to see
exactly how I’ve hardened
while waiting to be free.
I have stayed here far too long
watching you watch me change
from this messy broken doll
to a real and normal girl
with the wrong realities.
I know now I am falling
from the strings I had to cut
fixed into place with stitching
by the girls you turned to dolls
before you came for me.
What an unimaginable feat of accomplishment:
to strive and have, but to live for naught.
When sad moments of reality breach the dam’s capacity,
then overflow into the fantasy of what might have been,
there is a strange area of not “being”, now a part of the epiphany.
Were I to jump from here to the past, unable to wish for anything other than this,
accepting a journey I had no expectation for– losing faith in words;
becoming something I could never have thought to be,
a certain version of me: a person of long, slow thinking.
Why would my faith waiver now?
As I stumble upon false promises for a future I never wanted.