Turning Into Flowers - A Collection of Poetic Thoughts

Chapter One

Fractured Foundations

There's something about growing up on fractured foundation

Maybe that something means that you grow uneven

One side taller than the other

A part of you that had an opportunity and another part that was stolen from

I walk through life with a metaphorical limp

I am uneven

I am healed and I am broken

I am ahead and I am behind

I was nurtured and I was hurt

I am whole and I am fractured

My foundation is fractured

The Dark Blue Sky

The dark blue sky could have swallowed me whole that night

The way it unleashed its waters onto the hood of my car

It took all of my strength to remain where I was

To not get out and let the storm steal me away

I wanted to be blown into the ocean

Crashing with the white caps

But I continued to drive over the bridge

Staring at the threatened city under the dark blue sky

Wishing I was on the highest building

Closest to the looming clouds

Farthest away from my footing on the ground

I'm Just Here to Stay Alive

"Letting go is hard"

What a cliché

More like

I'm trapped in barbed wire

That you wrapped around my wrists

Every time I pull

I bleed

You whisper sweet nothings

And I swear it numbs the pain

Letting go feels more like suicide

I'm here just to stay alive

They've All Kissed My Fingertips with Hope

I have danced hand in hand with my pain

He himself has breathed down my neck

I have felt the rocks at the bottom

They have cut my fingers without pain

I have fallen into the dark

It has swallowed my soul in its entirety

I have touched the bottle, the blade, the rope

They have all kissed my fingertips with hope

Dad

You've seen him. We've all seen him. The man in dirty work clothes smoking a cigarette outside of an old unmarked building. The kind of building where the white paint is chipping off of the cement walls and the old sign that used to light up is broken and covered in a collection of what flies by and decides to land. The sun is just setting and traffic is dying down. Kids run home before the street lights come on, holding their jackets a little closer against the mid October wind. His old work boot is propped up against the wall, arms crossed, watching the world pass around him, watching everyone return to where they're expected to be. You'd see him and think he has nowhere to be; except for his check in at 7:30 with the front desk. One more time past curfew and he loses his bed. No time for small talk, if he walks too slow the hot water runs out before he can start a shower. And he can't forget to lie down before his roommate comes in from dinner, he'll roll up and offer him something to take off the edge. It'll be hard to say no but his drug screens are on Monday and the weekend is almost up. So instead he'll lie in his single bed against a wall filled with cobwebs and carvings from past dwellers. He'll take out his only possession that stayed with him through the years; a picture with a burnt edge. Two young girls look back at the lens: one about three with curly, unruly hair smiling hard but not as hard as the tall skinny girl about seven beside her with braids falling past her neck. The eldest has her arms around her younger sister in mid laugh. He thinks back to when he had it all, before he knew it was all he'd ever have. He wishes he cherished it more, every smile, every laugh, every time those girls would run and jump into his arms when he got home from work. Those girls are twenty-one and twenty-four now. His youngest is engaged and living on her own. His eldest has two children of her own and a husband she makes promise that he'll never leave like her father did. He promises but she can't help but wonder. They don't think about him much anymore, maybe in fleeting thoughts. Maybe late at night when the mind wanders down dark alleys of the past. He wonders if they could be thinking about him right now, right now while he is missing them so much. He kisses his picture, sits up and asks his roommate to pass him something to take off the edge.