Trapped and desolate
Abandoned and afraid
What can get me out?
Of this hole I have made
Sunshine is a myth
Happiness has been torn
What is a life?
When you haven’t been born
Awaiting a day
When fear is that myth
Just a forgotten story
We have heard
And be saved
By a hopeful little bird
Hope may save
Hope may rescue
Pull me out of my hole
Let me see a new you
These are letters from a scrapbook, during the time of the Berlin Wall. It is from a mans perspective (Alexander). He writes throughout the years while the Berlin Wall is up, but when the wall comes down he learns she has moved on, while he is still attached.
Spiked are the mountains
Sprinkled are they with white snow
Watching over us
Green grass with fresh dew
The morning has come again
Along with much new
Come the cleansing rain
Washing the evil away
Taking pain away
Deep in the night
something flickers and burns
A gentle face
A soothing look
Thats all she was
here and gone
seven years have passed
Day in day out
Mourning her loss
every moment awake
missing her face
every step I take
Venture out with me
Into the open waters
Into the moonlit seas
Venture out with me
Into the golden sunsets
Into the tropical breeze
Lets explore the unknown
Always together
Never alone
Ventrue out with me
Into the open waters
Into the moonlit seas
Venture out with me
Into the golden sunsets
Into the tropical breeze
Let freedom
Flow through our hair
No worries
No difficulties to bear
Venture out with me
Into the open waters
Into the moonlit seas
Venture out with me
Into the golden sunsets
Into the tropical breeze
She held her head in her hands, with her thumbs brushing soothingly over her coarse hair. To give herself comfort; as if she didn’t get her full of empathy from the many others’ solace and care. The many so called “friends” she had. They did come visit recently, and went. Out of her depressing bedroom, wondering silently if they should be there. Doubting their soothing gestures authenticity, not understanding the origin of her breakdown.
She never wanted their pathetic attempts at caring. She never wanted fraud or deception. she wanted real love. But,she certainly didn’t say anything about that confusing, subconscious, fantasy she new little about. Still I’m sure it pondered in her mind, a fragmented thought or feeling. Telling her what she needed.
She refused to listen ,though, of course she did. Like every other person in this screwed up world. She was so self-absorbed with the physical, her appearance, what was important to her or her friends. She was so caught up in the moment, in the reality she lived in; that she couldn’t even see her own emotions. Which were so eager to be recognized, to be somehow, in any way, expressed. Patiently awaiting the slightest feeling that was genuine. Not artificially wrapped in drama, suffocated by the unrealistic features of her broken life.
Honesty will always be interesting, but to be truthful, especially to yourself, may be our biggest battle.
I am from sweet smelling air
from cow bells
and worn leather saddle straps
I am from self discovery and adventure
From unknown bugs buzzing around me
from rich soil crackling with life
From old jokes that do not hold their humor
and old fashioned phrases passed down
I am from dust covered spier webs
and little white horse hairs
From dodging poisoned oak
and everything “new” to me
I am from nature
You are a scoundrel, a criminal, a dangerous mastermind
stands tall encased with false fame
intertwined with an unproved reputation
Swallowed in smog
Wrapped in ocean mist
and supposedly the original home to fame
The strong industrial city stands prominent
busting with pride
bursting at the seams with wealth
And streaked with the arrogance
the world hasn’t seen
He strums his guitar like playing his own heart, trying to open a door to something no one could ever see. No one could ever fathom. Hiding a secret that has been long lost, and forgotten. Isolated he sits, waiting for the inspiring wisps of chords to come. searching endlessly for the combination to his own world, his own mind.
Many would love to peer into his excitement, his passion. Many would love an invitation to criticize. But there he sits. Tapping into his magic. Strumming tirelessly, slowly disappearing. Going in and out of his world and ours. a world none could ever visit. None would understand.
I have been. I have seen the streets filled with songs. Each city a different key. Every animal a different melody. Oceans of chords, Mountains of notes. A world made of music.