Warning: the following rant will most likely include profanity, snark, anger, venting, and a general sense of crankiness caused by, well, stuff. Unless I hit overload and wimp out.
Today was one of those days even before I knew it. Because it started off stress-free and lovely, which should have been my first sign. I mean aside from the ever-growing pile of used tissues and the lack of a voice when I first woke up because, bronchitis. Again.
Oh, and the snow outside, especially the icy lump in the middle of the driveway daring me to drive over it so I could take Father Dear to get his stitches removed. (I dropped it into first gear and the icy lumps lost. I was not about to allow my car to get stuck in the snow.)
It was the first time I left the house since before the Blizzard Of The Century That Wasn’t.
I live a very exciting life you know, especially in the winter when I get one of those inner-battles where my immune system always gets it’s ass kicked and I’m a puddle of lethargy trying my best to hide it.
(I’ve noticed a distinct lack of rant-ness going on here because too much time has passed since I wrote the first sentence. Never a good sign when you’re trying to rant.)
First Main Street was closed because of a fire, making me late-ish due to a stupid detour down a barely plowed road followed by a lack of my cousin who said he’d shovel Dad’s driveway and even do his laundry (mighty nice of him since he coincidentally only shows up when he needs to do his laundry or store his tools) while I took him to the doctor.
Obviously, my cousin didn’t show so I’m running up and down the basement steps to get the laundry started before we leave because yes, I actually have things of my own to do and laundry wasn’t in the memo.
This led to me unable to find my car keys for a good ten minutes, when I finally gave in and asked Dear Saint Anthony to please come around.
As usual, he did and I did. Find my keys.
Next, the awkward social situations I’m forced to improvise in the name of damage control when my Father is in smartass-to-strangers mode, his brand of humor.
Then the inevitable suggestion that we go to Burger King, the restaurant of Dear Daddy’s choice, and the drive-thru compromise because time is seriously not on my side.
A stop at Krauszers for Dad’s newspaper turned into a driving clusterfuck as a teenager girl driving the brand new car someone else paid for wouldn’t stop blowing her horn as my 88 year old Father was struggling to get out of my car (he refuses to let me help him or go in the store for him, plus there was enough room for her to drive around me, also, emergency blinker thingys were flashing).
It took everything I had to keep myself from jumping out of the drivers seat and having a word with the young miss.
Not really, it was more the sight of the neighbor up the street who happens to be a cop. I knew my Irish would take over and it wouldn’t be pretty.
I’m not confrontational but do the slightest thing to hurt any of mine and I go ballistic.
I’ve been known to grab bikers by their leather jackets and slam them into walls for wrongly harassing a friend while girl-shouting in his face.
But instead of a cat fight, I lit my first cigarette in awhile, bronchitis be damned because otherwise someone or something was going to see my fist. Or I would yell shrilly.
Back to Dad’s house to finish the laundry and move his car for him so it would be easier for him to get through the snow and what do ya know, somebody who shall remain nameless did a fake-out shovel and I had to shovel a path through the kind of snow that has a thick layer of ice on top. Did I mention I have bronchitis?
I can’t even muster up enough energy to rant properly.
I’m all flannel pajamas and piles of blankets trying to write with Fang Face Willy, no longer a kitten in size but still in attitude, diving into Drusilla and biting her neck while she speaks in cat-tongues I’ve never heard before but her grumbled growls really do sound like words. She puts her paw on his head, holds him in place then frantically licks his face till he submits and dashes off to try and have his way with me.
Since I’ve been interrupted so many times since I began writing this nearly 35 hours ago, I’m going to chalk this up to a rant as bad as everything that led up to me wanting to rant in the first place.
Kinda like a boring diary entry but here’s the thing, I’ve been spending way too much time writing and not posting I have decided to throw my hands in the air, not even reread this damn thing and post it to break my too-long-since-I-posted streak.
Maybe tomorrow I shall awake bronchitis-less, full of energy, a clear mind, no vampire cat trying to write his own rant.
I know! I’ll do “research” and read!
That’s a thing you know, gotta read if you wanna write, right?
I’m gonna regret posting this babble, but if I don’t break this non-posting streak, my regret will increase tenfold.
I’ll just throw on another comforter, cozy up with a book or ten and lose myself in someone else’s words so I can find my own.
I have a Love Spanks Event to attend next week, I have to stop being sick! Also, write. Ok, over and out until the next time dear ones.
Warning: the following rant will most likely include profanity, snark, anger, venting, and a general sense of crankiness caused by, well, stuff. Unless I hit overload and wimp out.
The gauntlet was thrown down so what else could I do but accept? Anne Ferrer Odom http://www.flashinganne.com/asiberianvacation/ has challenged me to participate in The 24 Hour Wooden Spoon Challenge. The rules? Write a 2k word story in 24 hours including the following parameters:
cooler of Gatorade
Please be gentle, I’m a newbie 😉 so with no further ado, here ya go!
“It was a dark and snowy night, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, blah-blah crap.”
I deliberately mashed-up whatever words popped into my head as I wiped down the bar for the final time. I was thinking of closing early tonight.
It was another bust, a waste of time and money opening the bar during a snowstorm when the house band cancelled. Hell, even the hardcore regulars didn’t want to come out in this weather. I didn’t blame them but somehow, I was sure of it, James would blame me.
His bar, his rules, and he asked me to keep an eye on it while he was out of town.
“Just a day or two,” I grumbled to myself. “Liam in trouble and James runs. Every. Damn. Time.”
All he wanted me to do was make sure the bar opened and closed on time. Nothing more, nothing less.
Yet here I was pouting like a kid, alone in a cold, empty bar washing down already clean bar-tops. Even the bartenders and the cook called out. Hence me here alone in a howling snowstorm.
I was doing nothing more than making myself cranky and it wasn’t even midnight yet.
Screw this, I thought to myself, we’re closed. Executive decision.
I locked up, shut most of the lights out, looked at the clock and immediately felt guilty.
James would think I was insane for even opening the bar but I gave him my word and my stubbornness wouldn’t let me go back on it, valid reason or not.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the way his jeans fit perfectly in just the right places.
Or the way his voice made me shiver in places I didn’t even know I had.
Or the way he twisted his one eyebrow when he saw through my feigned disinterest.
I thought I turned the heat down because it couldn’t be my train of thought heating me up.
“Ok,” I said to no-one,”I’ll stay until midnight but I’m keeping the doors locked and….”
I looked around the bar, eyes spying the pool table, deciding to play pool until midnight, leave my car here and walk the few blocks home. I’d even pony up the quarters so I wouldn’t feel so guilty about the shots of Jameson I was about to pour myself.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I muttered as I turned on the jukebox and programmed an eclectic selection, starting with some good old fashioned punk music to match my mood and stop my moping.
After throwing three shots in succession down my throat I began to feel a little warmer, wishing I hadn’t worn my favorite blue cashmere sweater. Sure it made my eyes sparkle but right now it was making me sweat.
I walked over to the rack and chose a pool cue, the Jameson doing it’s job as I felt warmth rush through my body. A Nick Cave song came on and I swayed my hips to the beat, slithering to the pool table, racking the balls, ready to channel every bit of stress through that wooden stick. I wasn’t messing around, I was determined to get every damn ball in a pocket without scratching.
I did pretty good the first game, didn’t scratch once. And since that was the only rule I gave myself, I expected my winning streak to continue.
Another few rounds and I began to get bored, but I still had one more ball left on the table.
“Damn it’s hot in here,” I said out loud as I threw back another shot.
I really wasn’t drunk, just comfortably numb and careless. Or was that carefree?
Oh who cared? Whatever it was had me thanking my lucky stars I’d worn a camisole under my sweater because I ripped that sweater right over my head when “Hey Big Spender” came blaring out of the sound system, making sure to swing it around as I swiveled my hips before throwing it over my shoulder, grabbing the pool stick like it was a stripper pole.
I ran my hands up and down it before leaning over the pool table, wiggling for the hell of it and damn if I didn’t scratch.
“Oh no you don’t!” I yelled as I slid across the table, ass in the air as my hand grabbed the cue ball right before it sank into the corner pocket.
“You little cheater,” growled a very familiar voice.
Here and now watching me make an ass of myself. And, kinda cheating.
My ass! In the air!
I hopped off the pool table and nearly fell, especially when I noticed my cherished sweater was now covering part of his head. Shit, how long was he standing there?
I was so fired. And I didn’t even work here.
“James! What are you doing here? I mean I know it’s your bar but aren’t you out of town with your brother and it’s snowing and the bands cancelled and is it hot in here and not one customer came in tonight, can you believe that, but I’m here anyway because you know me, when I give my word you can count on me and everyone called out because of the weather and…cheater?”
I knew I was babbling and should really just shut my mouth but I also knew that wasn’t going to happen because, “cheater??? Did you just call me a cheater???”
He didn’t say anything, just walked closer to where I was leaning against the pool table.
It was kinda hard to read the expression on his face, what with my sweater covering part of it but I swear I could see his lips trying not to twitch.
“Give me that!” I pulled it off his head, figuring I’d try the old turn everything around on him trick.
“First of all,” I began, “don’t sneak up on me like that! I could have killed you by mistake!”
Now I could see his face.
Yeah, he was definitely trying not to laugh so I let that fuel my anger some more.
No way I was going to let him know how embarrassed I was.
Oh man, I was starting to get a headache. Why didn’t I just stick to my usual Gatorade instead of Jameson?
“And I DON’T cheat! I won every game fair and square Mister.” I poked him in the chest for emphasis and immediately had a hard time swallowing when I felt what he’s been hiding underneath his clothes. Why were we avoiding getting involved with each other? At that moment I couldn’t think of one good reason.
He stared me in the eye for what seemed like forever and my mouth was dry. Just my mouth.
“Wanna play?” He drew out those two words like a lovers kiss, his arms on either side of me, pinning me against the pool table.
James and I had been doing this dance for a long time. A very long time.
Life always got in the way.
But right now, in this bubble of time, the two of us locked in here while a blizzard raged outside, I couldn’t think of a single reason why we still never got around to scratching the itch we both had for each other.
“Pool?” I squeaked.
His hands grabbed my hips so quickly I didn’t realize it until I was sitting on the pool table, my legs open and James standing right in the middle of them, pushing me back a little further.
“We’re long past pool pet,” his one hand came up and tangled in my hair, forcing me to look at him. He pulled back just enough to hop up next to me on the pool table, pulling me closer to him, his mouth a breath away from mine. His eyes were dark with the same desire I was sure reflected in mine.
I could fight it as much as I wanted, try to lie to his face and convince him he had no power over me, but my eyes always gave me away.
“We’ve talked about this sweetheart,” his voice alone made me throb. “You know I don’t take this lightly. If you want to play, we play by my rules, and you know what that means.”
His hand was still in my hair, his mouth so close I could practically taste the mixture of nicotine and cinnamon from the gum he’d chewed.
My tongue darted out as I licked my lips, he had to feel the way my body trembled as I whispered two words.
“Do you really?” he asked before catching my lower lip with his teeth.
My tongue slipped into his mouth, desperate to taste him as his hands lowered to my hips, sliding me off the pool table, maneuvering me between his legs. His hands were the only thing keeping me from melting into a puddle right where I stood.
He tasted like manna from Heaven and I was starving.
“You know you’ve got to pay for those shots you’ve been helping yourself to.” I groaned as he pulled his mouth away from mine.
“I-” He didn’t let me finish, instead he flipped me down over his lap, his big hands running over my ass like it belonged to him. I could feel how hard he was through two pairs of denim and tried to finagle my way to the zipper of his jeans when he grabbed my small hands with one of his.
“Wait.” He said.
“Why?” I whined in reply, wiggling against him aching to relieve some of the throbbing threatening to explode any second.
“Because I said so.” And with that a sharp sting vibrated through my body as he smacked my ass.
James just did what no-one else had ever managed to do, he shut me up.
And it felt good.
“Did I just hear the sound of you not talking Lizzie?”
I tried to speak, I swear I did, but all I could do was moan.
“Now by my count, because I’ve been here a lot longer than you noticed, I believe you had four shots. Is that right Lizzie?”
How in the world did he expect me to speak when he had me ass-up over his lap, more turned on then I’d ever thought possible?
“Mmmm-hmmm,” was the best I could do.
James let out a laugh at my inability to talk. It was a running joke between us that I could never stop babbling.
“Oh this is precious,” he said, “I should have done this a long time ago. You really do have a perfect ass ripe for a good spanking, but that’ll have to wait, for now, it’s payback time.”
“Gah…” Nope, still couldn’t speak.
“The question is,” he slowly ran his hand over my ass in ever-widening circles, stopping just short of the part of my body that throbbed the most.
“Do I drag this out slowly?”
I nearly flew off his lap when his hand came down again, harder this time. I was soaked through my panties.
“Or should I get it over with fast?”
Another whack to my ass and I groaned loudly. He was torturing me in the very best of ways.
“How many was that Lizzie?”
“Uh, two?” I lied.
“You know you just earned another one missy.”
I waited for another smack but nothing. The anticipation was driving me crazy. I didn’t even realize he’d let go of my hands until, head hanging down, I saw a pool stick in his hand as he smashed his foot against it, breaking it in half. I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped my mouth.
“You know Lizzie, it’s a shame we’re not closer to the kitchen, a wooden spoon would do wonders but,” he ran the broken pool stick over my burning cheeks. “We’ll have to improvise this time.”
How was it possible to get any wetter than I already was?
Three more swats, this time with the pool stick and I exploded, long and hard, my entire body on fire, shaking and shuddering.
He threw the pool stick across the room and pulled me up, undressed us both in record time till we were both on the pool table, me on top as he sank me down, filling me completely, a satisfied grin on his face as he watched me come as many times as he smacked my ass.
And then, finally, he let himself go, growling my name as we both went over the edge together.
I had a feeling I was going to need a cooler of Gatorade if I was going to keep up with James.
Authors Note: Lizzie and James are two characters I’ve been playing with for awhile. For purposes of this story, the fact that they are vampires doesn’t matter 😀 If you want to read more about their ever-evolving relationship, feel free to go there———–>
Also, I will be challenging someone else and adding the information here. Be back soon because I have to post this within the next 34 minutes else I be banished to the corner.
Which I probably will anyway because I forgot to tag Ana
ETA: I have challenged Ana to write 2k words in 24 hours, must haves: a wooden spoon, a pearl necklace and an empty bottle of Chanel No. 5. Go!
I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. Yeah, I know, I guess pretty much everyone goes through this phase with the ever-expanding, always-changing, out-of-our-own-control, time-eating cyber-version of high school.
Like most of our high school experiences, it’s a mixture of good and bad but I have to admit, sometimes FB flat out makes me cranky.
I’m happy to be able to talk to Family I haven’t seen since I was in the single digits, good friends I’ve lost contact with as everyone scattered to live their own lives, start their own Families, you know, the good.
Meeting new people I never would have met in real life without Facebook, wonderful people from around the world and sometimes folks who lived in my own town whose paths never crossed mine. Or maybe we never had things in common until we became whoever it is we became.
That’s part of the good.
And then there’s the bad, aka High School Redux, where the same cliques in high school pick up from where they left off and carry on, still forever 17 in their minds.
You know who I’m talking about; those girls who turned their backs on you because you weren’t cool enough to be a cheerleader (somehow it never occurred to them perhaps I didn’t want to be a cheerleader), those same girls stuck in a time-loop as they post pictures of themselves in their cute little Halloween kitty-costumes that are no longer flattering but dammit, they’re divorced and the zillionth class reunion is around the corner and “sigh, maybe he’ll be there and this time I’ll get the football hero…sigh…”.
Selfie-Queens who post pictures of themselves like it’s a popularity contest and they aren’t satisfied until they get 1000 ‘likes’ from 1000 strangers feeding their ego.
As you may have picked up, I’m not big on the whole selfie thing.
Maybe I’m camera shy. Maybe I don’t want to splatter my ‘wall’ with pictures of me. Maybe I don’t have an out of control ego that needs to be fed on a constant basis. (No, I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about you.)
Whatever the reason, I don’t really care to be the center of attention which is a weird thing for a lead singer to say. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, in fact I love seeing photographs of my friends and Family, I love seeing pictures of new people I’ve ‘met’ and learning more about them and their lives.
But it’s just part of my personality to observe, stay in the background and figure things out, fill my mind with stuff so I can spew my own words onto the paper/screen.
My lack of selfies has been commented on (behind my back of course, just like high school) by a girl who was once my BFF until we lost touch. She has decided I put up pictures of myself like “those girls who hide behind their hair so you can’t see their face”. Apparently, this once-former model, who used to worship my every move, has no use for me anymore because she looked at my political leanings and decided I’m scum.
I’ve been stalked, hacked, backstabbed, ignored, you know, just like high school.
That’s the bad part.
I guess in the long run, the good outweighs the bad because I’ve ‘met’ some of the most awesome people anyone could hope to ‘meet’.
Maybe I’m just playing favorites because I rather spend more time here at WordPress than Facebook, or maybe I’m just cranky because my cold turned into bronchitis which translates into a good couple weeks of me being sick.
And I’m cranky because even though I’ve been writing every day I’ve been saving everything to draft instead of posting like I should.
I wonder if the 17 phone calls a day from my Dad has anything to do with my bad moody?
Or I’m picking on Facebook because I sometimes let it eat too much of my time, and I also know that FB can cause a lot of destruction to real-life life when it turns into the high school cafeteria and I’m standing alone with a full tray and nowhere to sit.
Maybe it bugs me to realize someone I once traded secrets with is now as one dimensional as a photograph.
Yeah, I’m a weirdo, an outcast, a rebel without a cause and plain old stubborn. And yeah, I really don’t like to have my picture taken, I prefer to be the one taking the pictures and capturing the moment, not because I’m trying to hide behind my hair, not because I don’t look good in pictures and don’t spend money on cosmetic surgery in a desperate attempt to look forever 17. But because I’m beautiful just as I am, as we (almost) all are, inside and out.
And the fact that I know this to be true will not be rattled by the words of someone who is still living mentally in high school.
I know who I am.
And thankfully, dearest readers, so do you.
And since we’re on the subject of high school and pictures, here’s me when I was a senior in high school, not hiding behind hair. I’d put a ‘selfie’ taken right this very second, but I think that means the terrorist win.
Or something like that.
It’s almost time to get your spank on!
ANNOUNCING LOVE SPANKS 2015!
Prizes, free stories from award-winning authors, and fun!
Don’t you wish you could find more books written about women who love women? We do! Come and join us for a short story extravaganza. Nearly 20 F/F authors will showcase romance, paranormal, sci-fi, fantasy, and kink fiction. Chat with your favorite authors, meet new-to-you authors, find great new books, and make new friends! Absolutely free!
Visit Governing Ana February 6-8, read stories, and leave comments to enter a drawing for a brand-new Kindle Fire/Nook HD, sex toy, or other prize from a pool valued at over $800!
Register for Love Spanks 2015 here!
Want to earn extra perks? See below!
View original post 601 more words
i imagine i imagined everything
dreamed it all up
just to keep me sane,
i was a genie and granted all your wishes
little bubbles of time and space floating
and i’d slither from one to another,
keeping the balance balanced
sprinkling glittery hope like snowflakes
to cover the ugly,
make it twinkle like my eyes,
i tried to keep the stars in place
but they pushed back too hard and i tumbled,
you caught me anyway,
but my thoughts became scrambled,
foggy and fearful and full of wonder,
not the wonder of it all,
but the wonder of the why,
because it looked unattainable on paper,
perhaps i scattered my mind as i left what should have been crumbs
to lead me back,
i got lost
unsure of what was sure,
forgetting i shouldn’t forget
and tumbling to the bottom,
it’s dark down here
but i imagine i see your eyes glow far above
at the top of the bottle,
you peer down,
i can almost reach you
SAVE HARSH REALITY! I NEED MY DOSE OF HARSH REALITY AND SO DOES THE WORLD!
No one likes spam. In internet terms (as opposed to the stuff you find on the grocery store shelf) it’s the bane of our existence. Its sole purpose is to get our attention and once it does, it either begs us to buy something or gives us something we would never pay for – something like a virus.
Then there is the exception to the rule. In fact, there is only one exception that I’ve found in over a decade of browsing the web. It may have seemed like a “spam follow” at the start, but when I followed the cookie-crumb trail that led me back to its source, it ended up benefiting me beyond my wildest dreams: it was HarsH ReaLiTy.
Jason, also known as Opinionated Man, has a huge (over 50,000 blog, twitter, and Facebook combined) following on his blog, HarsH ReaLiTy. His passion for connecting with other…
View original post 373 more words
I’ve been hemming and hawing like a, uh, (an?) heming-haw-er.
It is a thing you know.
It stares at me from everywhere, “You Should Be Writing”.
My screensaver, my Twitter and Facebook thingy, fingers pointing at me in accusation and reminder. Little post-it notes in random places. My head constantly whispers the words, a litany, ‘write little girl, write’, as words of genius, life changing words that can save the entire world with their power fill my head, tumble ass over head in this brain o’mine as I crack my fingers, stretch my mental muscles and prepare to dive right in, a writing force to be reckoned with. A vicious word-tiger ready to pounce.
And then there is William.
He’s the one who pounces and I have the scratches to prove it.
How in the world did I wind up with a 4 month old Siamese kitten obsessed with my computer? Specifically the keyboard. Even more specifically, when it’s open to a blank WordPress page.
But it doesn’t stay blank for long.
It get filled up in a flash with whatever William wants.
Yep, it’s not me. It’s FangFace. He likes to touch random keys with his delicate yet sharp kitten paws.
He likes to stretch across my keyboard, roll over, then stare me in the eye with his person-in-a-cat-face-human-like eyes daring me to move him.
Talk about a battle of the blues, we stare at each other seeing who can hold out longer in a good old fashioned staring contest. ‘Don’t blink’ my mind demands, ‘you are the Alpha, he’s a tiny ball of fur, don’t blink!’
And then William, without breaking eye contact, opens up his fang-filled mouth and says “Meep” and bam! Just like that he wins because I can’t stop myself from laughing.
I am a bad kitten-mother.
He has me wrapped around his fingers/paw-claws making it more than a little difficult to write.
So I finally break my kitten hostage ties, wherein I’m the hostage of course, only to be hit over the head with the Head Cold From Hell, now with new and improved versions of the flu (immunity not included, previous flu-shot does not prevent this strain and am I gonna turn into a weird hybrid of a vampire-cat?) and what suffers the most? Say it with me: my writing.
Just like that it tumbles to the bottom of the list as I muster up any energy I can so I’m able to:
1.) Pretend I’m fine
2.) Take my Dad to his skin cancer doctor (while cancelling my own doctor appointment)
3.) Make believe I’m not going to hurl as I see the amount of blood pouring down my Father’s face as I crack jokes to keep my Dad distracted (usually making myself the brunt of said jokes because, umm, just because it’s how we roll)
4.) Try and sleep any chance I can get inbetween juggling balls in the air unassisted
5.) Praying that one morning, just one morning, I can wake up to a clean kitchen, you know, the way it was when I went to sleep the previous night. I know. Not. Gonna. Happen.
Yes, of course I can go on and on but I’m already pushing my luck.
Little Willy FangFace is watching the screen as I type, he knows I’m driving him to the Veterinarian today so he’s plotting his future revenge. He’s a Virgo so I know he has the patience of a cat (and that was totally unintentional), I already know what he has in mind, he’s going to cry his tiny little heart out when I’m driving and he’s stuck in a cat carrier just to make me feel guilty. Here’s a hint Wills, I always feel guilty, you’ll just be making me feel guiltier than usual.
And while FangFace is getting his checkup I get to drive around the block, put on my nurse hat, and change my Dad’s bandages, wash his clothes, and pretend I’m not cleaning his house while covertly cleaning his house. He doesn’t need any help ya know! He’s fine on his own! And those 17 times a day phone calls from him are just part of his day. Because after all, I don’t have a “job”, writing is just some thing I do to pass the time/sarcasm font really needed right about now.
So to sum up:
I should be writing.
As much as possible.
I need to reconsider my future plans and instead, move to an igloo somewhere in the depths of Alaska. (Does Alaska have depths?) Whatever, as long as it’s an isolated place without distraction.
Oh Cape May, I hear you calling my name.
you stand by your window alone
staring into that same night sky in front of my eyes
does it look identical from your perspective,
does the location make up for the lack of warmth
between each frozen word
or do you make a wish,
hope for the best you can handle
and say your prayers as you sink into sleep,
does it change anything when you mouth the words
like memorized bible verse
or does a silent scream do the trick
head down shoulders back soldier,
carry on the mission you signed up for
until you drop,
i can see the stars clearer when the moon goes away
sometimes i count them but usually,
at the wonder,
and it’s in the middle of the night
when i stand near my own window looking up,
i hover between believing the impossible possible,
or the other way around, doesn’t matter which,
the moon will always make it’s rounds and try to fuck me up
i shrug it off each time after awhile,
that cliché pull of the moon yanks me tight against my will
yet i always manage to hang on long enough for an angel to swing by
always at the most opportune moment when i need it most, (mostly)
and somehow makes me save myself
just watch out for those angel-faced beauties with a snake of the charmer in their eyes,
they can perform miracles, just don’t let on you know
i could sit here forever
as it nags at me, just a whisper really but
an unrelenting nag,
‘it’s all here’,
that siren’s call (it’s so beautiful)
‘come and get it’
and oh, do i want to,
dig deep and hold on tight then,
explode in a burst of genius or
a smooth float down a lazy river,
one just as satisfying as the last
and the next,
it’s just this one, this particular now,
a sky high mountain i built with my own little hands
but i can climb,
my fingers flew before and they will fly again,
for now they slide along,
landing wherever and whenever they will,
not quite thought-less,
a pressure-less kind of pressure,
it’s funny how you can see so clearly
through the early morning snowflakes
when you can hear again
i heard your voice this morning
my heart raced and my mind felt warm,
as if a blanket made of angel feathers engulfed me
and once again i felt safe, secure,
it didn’t last long though,
reality smacked me awake, hard and firm
reminding me my dreams are just that,
there is no pot of gold at the end of my rainbow
for i am nothing more than an observer,
watching the rest of the world go by
my brain puts pieces together in the wrong order
making the sensible senseless
and the senseless tolerable,
i’m disconnected once again
control ripped away
while the evidence piles up,
castles being built high in the sky for a worthier princess than i
as the actual tumbles over me brick by brick
holding me down, unable to save myself
from my uncontrollable self-inflicted mind-fuck