DestinyChick

I an unworthy of this happiness. It is h o l l o w And NOT real. Then again, NEITHER am I. I am a l i a r . A fake. The shifting image On the surface of the water. Everyone is running to me. All of them want to be with me. But none of them can catch me. Because I am NOT real. Am I a mirage of what I want to be? Am I a shadow of what I used to be? Or am I just a fool, pretending to know?

She stood in the middle of the pathway, looking down at a sheet of crumpled notebook paper. It had the address of the house before her written in a mother's cursive scrawl; a little hard to understand without tilting her head to the side and squinting. Her dark eyes glanced briefly up to the two story tenement and then back behind her to the abandoned street littered with dry leaves. Not a soul in sight that cloudy October afternoon in Greenwich, Connecticut. Swallowing hard, she took another brave step towards the house that had belonged to her late aunt. "I just need you to go and get this book, Cathy, dear. Petunia borrowed it so long tim

We spoke not so ago, in Static we strain for the other Voice to save us from our prison. You are my sweet silver lining. Your last letter preserved rather In my hidden hope chest I keep. So, when I look back as a mother You'll be my sweet silver linin'. Your words across the screen can reap The strength I need from me to live. Enough last night to fall asleep. The sweetest silver lining. How can I go on to forgive With so many people who judge On how long this thing can relive? Won't take my sweet silver lining. I try to wipe away the sludge That covers my computer screen But I'm what I'm looking through won't budge This pa

Above, the canvas of the sky is blank. Underneath my feet, the leaves scatter To the sides of the road in panic frank; Uncertain of the brewing storm splatter. My eyes cast upwards as the sky growls; Now, I can feel the tension in the sky. Rumbles echo behind, the sky howls; Allowing me a chance, at last, to cry. In the deluge you won't see me tears fall; No soul can notice once in autumn thrall.

The sky blushes a soft pink As it is kissed by scintillant sunlight. Tender fingers curling over the edge of the horizon Delicately feeling out; Scared to find that was left over Will still remain. It hisses in pain as it meets the tarnished metal. Each frayed wire or metal beam breaking off from the stalk is withered. Cracked windows send miniature bands of color up Like thousands of broken fountain heads, As they are bathed in gossamer hues. This was once a skyscraper. A building of exceptional height; Now a mere shell; Just a lonesome structure rising from the middle of the desert. It is arcing to the left, Reaching out wit

The suitcase lies with its mouth wide open, Mismatched clothes all along the floor. The routine of a family broken; A perfect story no more. Got just enough to survive two plane trips for home. Emergency supplies in the carry-on bag. It's the time of the year to reign in the roam And to bear the burden of the white flag. To surrender to the love of different people, Related by blood and marriage. Yet both in the mind are equal, During the holidays, the mind clears the baggage Because that is what this time of year can do. It can outline the sweet silver lining That the bad days can cloud up the blue. So for the sake of holidays

"The safest place is my mind." Is what she wrote On her hand After every time She tried to voice her thoughts. But even when she didn't speak Everyone around her knew All the words in her head Before they were coming out of her mouth. It was predictable And so was she. They just needed to take one look; To see the clothes pins holding her clothes together, To see the overly dramatic eye liner, To see the slightly vacant look in her eyes, To know That she wasn't completely there. That was partially right, She wasn't far ahead of all of them; Planning her next move.

Have you ever watched a flame on a cold winter night? Something about it just seems so right As the thimble of a flame waves so bright, And chases shadows across the wooden floors. It is quite unlike the fairy tales you've read. When you were the little girl couldn't stay in bed, She, who wandered to get a snack but instead, Used the candle to watch shadows dance on doors. Now you are grown and you have not stopped burning oil. To have it by your side as you toil, Laboriously into the night, working your latest spoil About he qothed the raven's "nevermores." You have not changed from the little girl creeping along the floor, To m