The Coffee Hour

I remember, I remember

I remember smelling the black ink. 

I remember smelling the black ink that carries through thick and thin.

I remember swinging back and forth and back and forth on the swings as I bored my intentions to hear the birds sing, with the fall wind breezes, that the bird spread their wings. And I still search for tones. And I still search for sound. 

I remember feeling my small eyes gaze down at the cursive lines that follow my deep thoughts to an abyss tunnel as I conduct the measure of the stanza that brings rhythm. Word for word, piece by piece, till there's peace. But it never minds me since there's a purpose for each line. 

I remember falling in love with my shattered heart - creating detail after detail - a metaphor for metaphor - until I get lost in my circuits - until the pounding of my head blocks out the world I created, the world I love and loathe.

I remember the reaction of my first writing bursting my bubbles, revealing my accuracy in portraying a mind of a sinister, a mind of something broken.

I remember. I remember the crow that stood tall and high on top of the church as its laugh echoed across the gray clouds as I knew my glorious days were facing one of my many demons that I have always portrayed in my silhouetted of reasons and ideas. The one that I should be thanking the most, even if it hurts. 

I remember the repetition that kept going on repeat in my head, in my head, in my head, that my expression became in denial of the impressions. 

I remember, however, that this is all reality.

I remember wishing I could stay in my fantasies.