The cost of bread

 

When did you stop

believing in dreams,

in miracles, in fairytales,

in fantasy themes?

When did you become

 

so cynical?

 

Was it when you

stopped seeing

beyond the 9 to 5,

the cycle of time

repeating out of control?

Behind the newsprint lies

their ink-stained dividing lines.

Was it when this all

polluted your mind?

 

When did you become

so steadfast, believing

that magic had passed?

Untrusting, in happiness,

thinking that life

was just a slow motion

march to be dead,

last.

 

Did you lose your way,

when the seeds you threw

barely grew?

Only small green sprouts,

not the extravagant stalks

stories talk about.

Did that cause you to jack it all in,

throwing belief to the wind?

Did you forget to water it

with dreams,

to give it the nutrients it needs

to grow tall and thrive

on the stories you reap?

 

When did you let them

grind down your bones,

like the storied giants threatened?

Did you make your bread?

 

Whilst ignoring those lessons,

whilst reaching for the wrong stars.

 

Did that push the

happiness from your head

and leave you only seeing the world

in shades of grey,

not the colours presented

if you open your mind instead?

Fluorescent memories

 

I sit in the silence

of a daydream

only interrupted by the

station traffic buzzing

under the hum

of fluorescent memories.

 

The setting sun pierced

by the church in the distance.

Bleeding its golden hue

over the view.

and in the amber-tinged glow

I bestow my thoughts to the air.

I stow away the hopes and I sit in

reflective solitude.

 

The girl with headphones

sings along silently to her tune.

A dance in her feet

that she fears to set free.

 

I think to myself

let yourself be,

let the music move you

as it is made to.

For life is too short

for worry to quell your truth.

 

The bus arrives

in a blur of green, dissolving

into the alchemy of summer

gold leaf.

 

She quickens her step,

and I’m sure

I spy a twinkle

in her eyes as

she lets the beat

sway with her

into her aisle seat.

The sanctity of breath

 

Breathing is easy...

 

In out. In out. In. In. In.

 

So why then

am I choking up

just trying to think?

Why are my tears

blocked up like a clogged drain?

And why is the air tasting

of pain and despair?

Steely ice teasing me, slivers

getting caught at the top of my throat,

like someone has placed

a barrier to stop the emotions

before they can develop.

 

And when the pain grips me,

I sit in the darkness, the sanctity

of the story, the sanctuary of movies.

Awaiting the glow

of a cinema screen to

take me away to a world

anywhere but the

one I’m contained within,

where the walls feel

like they are closing

and my mind is full of static snow.

 

Because

to sit with this pain

eating away at me,

to listen as it chews

through my skin like popcorn

from a bucket of misery,

leaves me clenched and weakening,

as my muscles tighten

and my breathing

leaves me flailing.

 

In. In.In.In.In

 

And I bail.

Like a sinking ship

I fill my bucket

with emotions

And throw them

over the sides,

trying to stay afloat.

Trying not to lose sight

of the island to which I sail.

 

But I fail. And I fall.

 

Days like

this I wish

I could talk to

you. What words

would you speak?

Would they show me

that all will be okay, or that

the weather may get more stormy?

Could they be a soothing balm

to the grazed feeling in my heart?

And would they lift me up

and dust me off

for the journey to follow...

 

And though still hollow I breathe out.