She is what she is.

It’s late

and she found a way to be ok.

It gets dark,

but she’s there

even when you’re not counting on her to be there.

She watches,

she breathes.

She is as human as is humanly possible.

She doesn’t sleep

because she’s afraid tomorrow will be the same.

She doesn’t sleep

because she wants to be more.

She lies still,

willing the night away,

outlining the sounds she hears in the dark.

She sees the light sometimes,

it is so bright;

it makes her want to scream.

She sees the light

and then she shuts her eyes,

embracing the familiar dark.

Empty

To empty days,

Coward ways.

My feet,

They just lay.

I don’t move,

Neither do I grove.                                                                                                               

I’m lost,

Even on days when I’m found.

 

It’s empty here,

Where days don’t turn to night.

Where thoughts don’t turn to action.

Where sawdust meets sawdust,

On compromised land.

 

I’m not your saviour,

I can’t even save myself.

So,

It’s empty here.

Voices cling to vacant ears

And tired minds.

The green beyond,

Seems blue.

I’m still looking,

It changes now and then.

I recall seeing a bit of amber once,

But it was for such a brief moment,

It seemed I had imagined it,

In this tiny brain

That makes sense of nonsense most days.

 

I’d stop,

If my hands could understand

If they would just listen.

But that doesn’t happen often.

Nothing much happens here.

It’s empty most days.

I’m a coward on most days.

But when I dare,

The grass seems brighter somehow

Like the universe understood the step I’ve taken

To come out.

 

I’m a coward most days,

But I still dare to dare.