I like to talk, I really do. That is a simple statement – one of which I have made many times before. I don’t enjoy ranting but rather rambling: not complaining nor exhausting those whom I speak to and I want them to know that. That I do not talk because I am bursting with some sort of anxiety, though at times that may be true, but for the most part I talk because my brain has become so cluttered with ideas that the only way to vacuum is by spitting them out. I like to share, I like people to know what I am thinking, I often think aloud. Often I talk so that you can follow my train of thoght because I don’t want to leave you on the tracks and I would hate it if you got off on the wrong stop. Silence, well, silence sucks. It’s so loud in the quiet as thoughts scream to fill the void. Silence is the man waiting for the train with his feet on the bumpy yellow ground that warns you not to stand to close. My mouth is the train that knocks that neck-out man into the hole. My tongue dances to the music that is my voice and sometimes people prefer different genres, what would you like? Should I slow down the tempo? Ponder on the next words to flow out, maybe even pause for a second or two...?

Should I BELT USING ALL MY MIGHT TO SHARE MY IDEAS?

Should I whisper?

No matter what your answer is, I am going to sing my song.

I forget to write until something nice happens.

A pleasant conversation when aftwerwards

this joyous feeling creeps into my head.

It vibrates the thoughts waiting to be spoken

and it brings them to life,

charging each emotion.

Parenthood must be a daunting place to exist

Especially when coming from a childhood

Where you wish parents didn’t exist.

Knowing that your child will at some point hate you.

Because you drag them out of a store after they whined one too many times.

Because you embarrassed them in front of friends when trying to show affection.

Because you will push then to be better than one could possibly dream.

Your child will hate you for not loving them, too.

Horrifying is knowing

Parents won’t know when something is wrong

They don’t know to never play that song.

Knowing that a parent will hug you when you want it the most

But wondering, how I can I give my child the courage to tell me he’s lost?

Parenthood is solely for the dauntless.

I will not want you always.

I cannot because always is nothing.

There is no end to always so what is that worth?

No. I will not want you always.

But I want you now.

And I will want you in the next now.

I want you in tomorrow's now and

I want you in next week's now.

Will you please want me too,

Now?

Kiss me with eyes open

Hold my soul with your gaze

Kiss me with eyes open

Looking upon the top of my head.

Your warm lips pressed unto my forehead.

We stand in the cool winter night and I speak

With eyes but not my lips, for I wish

To soon find them frozen to yours.

Kiss me during evening traffic

Keep watch on the light

But don’t neglect my lips

Kiss me with eyes open

Kiss me with loving eyes

Kiss me where the salt runs down my face

Kiss me to heal the wound

Kiss me while you acknowledge my pain.

Kiss me with eyes open

You are not scared to see what’s ahead

Puckered lips or a silly face

Maybe a fat zit right on my nose.

Kiss me with eyes open

Because I trust you with my soul.

You should know,

I’ve burned so many with my flame.

Some just poked at it and walked away.

Maybe their finger blistered but it didn’t hurt for long.

Those who tried to straighten me, yelped and

found themselves with necks burned.

Some have one degree burns.

Healed with the icepack of my shoulder.

Others reached the second level –

Bleeding from the bite of my tongue.

Many times, they ignored my passions and

paid no attention as I shined brighter,

Before I could get s’more, I burst,

Marshmellows falling into open fire.

The third degree burners linger in the

darkness of my coal inferno.

If they took a step further than that,

then they remain with skin singed –

cigarette marks left in place.

Some dare to stay so long that when they walk,

their feet crumble to bacon bits.

The boldest leave in the wind,

ashes floating into nothingness.

A ghost of what we’d been.

The worst blow me out and I sizzle away,

The best build themselves armor to stay.

You admire my flame.

Why does society say no?

– when my heart says yes.

Why does my brain scream go?

– when they keep telling me to stop.

Who put on this show?

– when will the plot unfold?

What am I even doing?

– when I think of how I love you so.

There’s ups and there’s downs

but what about the flats?

What about what I feel now?

The nothingness inside my heart.

My life line has been through so many things.

Twisted into sweet bows and ripped apart,

inside everyone found a gift they did not want.

Except for him.

He took the box and shook it,

wondering what was inside.

He liked what he heard so he gave it a try.

He pulled at the ribbon and it seemed to give way,

the silk fell to the floor but on the box, wasn’t his name.

But he opened the gift anyways and put himself in.

Into a world where I cry and he grins.

I sob and I fall down into that deep rabbit hole.

He moves on climbing his mountain, tall.

I dig my way out and walk on the side,

My life has fallen flat, it’s getting harder to hide.

I hear my own laughter and I ask myself how.

How can I laugh at a time like this?

My cheeks pull upwards and contort into a wicked smile.

Again, I ask how.

How can I smile at a time like this?

I hear your voice and my stomach twirls.

I ask myself how.

How am I going to keep my breakfast down?

I see you walk out of the room and I tremble.

I ask myself how.

How far away do I need to be from you?

How long will these feelings last?

How will I ever go on again?

The smile says to me, because I have gone on before.

The laughter rings, I can’t escape.

But it’s not me who is laughing.

It's scary how often I write about the sad and troubling things.

It hurts that these are what I want to express and not joyful rings.

Rings of laughter and dance,

Tales of love and romance.

These things exist too,

but in memory there are few –

Few that remain pure, that weren't followed by watering eyes.

Few that remain honest, too many tainted by distasteful lies.

I will try to write more when these things occur.

I will try to get out there, escape this silly bore.

This dreadful sadness that I have come to accept,

in the back of mind mind, that little girl who wept,

She will weep no more.