Someone and Something

Sun, 10/18/2015 - 19:55 -- Kbeluch

They tell me I am not to let the wind beneath my wings take me adrift,

But when I urge to unearth my feathers’ beauty I am trying to break chains.

My bones are restrictive lanes I cannot change like two solid yellow lines.

Small, soaring through the sky, I am only a speck of dust, irrelevant on any telescope.

Are my feathers amethyst, sepia, cerise, cyan?


Too many times I’ve been the vase of turbulent expression.

The eyes of this storm reveal the grip of Ursula on the beaten battered bosoms of her

poor unfortunate souls

Then I crash on the floor, stiff and biting, pressed with the torture that reminds my taste

buds of the metallic cherry

The pieces glimmering a smug smile have acquired their own taunting mind. V A S and

E are all separate now.       

I have flames, sparks, intensity and more naivety that is permanent.

So when a daisy opportunity is placed in the vase…


It wilts and withers even in a dream home, an ideal home, a home perfect and holy.

The pieces chip away from their designation, never again to fit back in the jigsaw of a


The stem entices the transparent parcel with the promise of vibrancy and excitement

But the jagged edges weren’t comforted, and

Now the daisy bleeds, and the storm returns.


It circuits back to the first raindrop.

The dampness on the Sahara of my heart was so consuming like

Constant temptation playing with each touch—Act One on my lips.

It was nicotine that I warped my mind to call happiness.

And the first raindrop was, in fact, happy.

It was enamored with the extravagance of a feeling that spun my head in circles.

Adrenaline pumping through my veins—oh my god keep it going!

The carnival ride stops, and my temples feel the thumping aftermath.

Damned I was because it hurt like hell.

It was not sadistic but sad, and alas a negative attracts a positive.

A broken cycle that is made alright by enchantment.


Do the butterflies in my gut every break free?

Will tout le monde ever see the stain glass wings?

Right now, it is just the consistent hummmmmm of the center stage light.

Five hundred twenty-one elephants on my chest are barely keeping me breathing.


Surviving Antagonizing and Teasing—tell me what that stands for.

The grey matter upstairs is never the right shade,

And I blame Christian.

Then suddenly, the right shade is green—suddenly but not surprisingly.


If I could paint the world I would struggle to stay in the lines.

The clouds weren’t raised by Mother Weather to whisper softly.

Who’s to say fresh air is the delight to my nose, when it very could well be stale and this snake called “society” has me constricted?

Man down. I’m on my knees, blown to my knees, and the wind keeps howling.

And, the faults begin to shake and—



I am this. I am all of this. This is me.

I am the paper the pencil is scratching dosing pain but etching a masterpiece.

I am undefined which means I can’t be zero. I have worth.

I am prone to the life of lust experimenting for the gust that is more than a sudden burst.

I am weathered; I am eroded; I am callused;

I am not sculpted, shaped, or sketched.


The branch is convex under my weight—some baggage can’t be checked.

The branch is a coward.

The branch is weak.

The branch is



And, I will fly until you see the colors of my wings.

This poem is about: 


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