As she molded back into the tub of wax,
The medley that she came from,
She often thought it to be hard to maintain the shape she desired:
A little bird of yellow feathers with polka-dots of red,
Who sang a dark,
Blue song the whole night long and this is what she said:
Although I’d rather be a yellow bird than anything that’s grander,
I often find it all too hard to eat when life is bitter.
It’s easier this way you see,
To blend with all the others,
As broken wings and solemn things die slowly in the winter.
© 2001 RB
I don’t want to be your rag doll anymore.
My threads have worn thin and I barely recognize myself.
Once an item of adoration,
No one wants to play with me anymore.
I’m tired of sitting in your junk drawer with my eyes drawn open.
Reluctantly smiling hurts my tired,
It will take some crafty stitching to keep this baby doll from falling apart.
© 2007 RB
Walking towards the music to the sounds of my despair,
If only I could better listen to the true rhythm that is there.
I dance solemnly without a partner,
To a march without a beat,
This chaotic twisting pattern has proved to be too much for my feet.
The pain that once was centered has traveled up and down my spine.
It has made me clumsy in my steps and foolish in my mind.
As I stumble out of these inconsistencies,
I hope to fall into my place.
But I only land inside a different song with a faster,
More painful pace.
© 2002 RB
The past is a familiar juxtaposition of dreadful memories.
An existentialist’s nightmare is to not understand themself.
They do not comprehend what they have been through,
Fear to go back.
They no longer wish for death because they have already degraded to their minimal reality.
At the climax of depression they feel as though loneliness is enough to kill them.
They are disappointed by their inability to render reason –
Alone in a cave looking to the shadows to lead them to the light.
© 2002 RB