Waterlogged

forever daydreams of sleep
lusting for the inbetween
no safe haven in interactions.

toxicity of conversations
planting indeas inside you
slowly flooding all marrow.

waterlogged sense of self
heavy wet cardboard rotting
it sets in as roots grow.

esteem burning with infection
emotions wilting one by one
the bone idle death of you.

The Rolling Heart

My heart has hit the floor and it’s rolling,
violent waves inside moving forward and back,
my little dread filled ocean of red.

It is sinking within itself over and over,
reaching the bottom to float to the top,
to sink again while it escapes me.

If only it would break but for now it just cracks,
hair line fractures on its cold dead walls,
mapping its way over its veins.

Wishing it would just come home and flutter,
to quiver with excitement once more,
tickled from below by butterflies.

The Tear Collector

One window and one door
and a table with a vase.
A collection of teaspoons,
some ornate, some plain,
await to catch my tears,
collecting every last one,
in the vase on the table.
Never leaving this room,
dedicated all my time,
much sadness to catch,
nervous to face outside.
I don’t know what to do,
my vase is overflowing.

A Cloud in a Cardboard Box

Soft sobs are muffled,
he has lost his way,
he has lost his friends,
a lonely blue cloud
in a cardboard box.

He weeps and weeps,
praying to be found,
sodden with sad rain,
his little face so glum,
blue fluffy melancholy.

He sings soft songs,
comforting himself,
embracing himself,
his weak arms hug,
squeezing pain out.

The box opens up,
sunlight rushes in,
arms reach down,
he smiles so hard,
he has been found!

To be held like that,
he wept so hard,
from heaviest blue,
to the lightest white,
his soul is now clean.