Confessions of a MoonBabe

@moon-babe-blog

Professional Moon Babe who loves traveling, creating, writing, rocks, chai, & lower-case letters. I sell rad shit at: www.confetti-moon.com

664 posts

Smoke meets ink in water

A tornado

Dancing

With a hurricane.

Breathing doesn't help,

The gasses mix

And burst into flames.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Waves come in patterns,

Each different than the last.

But one single thread

Stitched between

Two sheets

As words fall from your lips,

I sink.

She was right when she said,

"An emotional affair"

Is that what it's called when we just don't touch?

Money in your pocket,

And you sing like a bird

Black hearts make requests,

The speakers explode.

Melancholy strangers

Become old friends

Months of front rows

And a song in my head.

I don't know how to keep doing this.

Waist deep

In water,

The volcano erupts...

A morning routine

Reoccurring

Each day.

The dam dares to burst

Over every little thing,

Tiny pebbles

Float downward...

Pulling as they sink.

It doesn't end

Just comes and goes

In heavy waves

It shoves and throws

Against the glass

A ruby line

It bends and runs

A hundred times

I swear I tried

I really tried...

I tried

I tried

I tried

You come in tiny blips.

Pieces of little nothings

That add up to everything.

Quick sightings,

From the corner of my eye.

I capture a glimpse

Of one single thread

As it runs through us all.

My knots,

Becoming untangled

As you tied bows

Around them...

Good grief,

You're a weaver of stars...

white winged,

Sewing hearts.

"It's just a feeling..." he says,

"It's temporary. "

But it sits on my doorstep,

Waiting to greet me

Again

And

Again.

Relentlessly knocking,

Begging for attention...

Refusing to vacate

Or bend.

I know this isn't my home

And I've overstayed

My welcome.

I hear it

I see it

I feel it in the air.

I wish I could say,

I'm surprised

But I'm not.

The system works

Just as it was intended...

To keep us pinned

Beneath their boot

To remain a commodity

That can be disposed of.

.

.

.

My soul is suffocating.

It's too much.

.

.

.

Justice is a mere illusion.

It does not grow here.

The rules

Don't apply

To those

Who

Make

Them

.

.

.

The first cut...

For freedom

The second...

For peace

The third,

I wish I could say that it felt as good...

But the truth is,

It hurt

Like the loss of something I wasn't ready to leave.

But it was my hand...

It's always my hand.

444

Four years.

Four days.

Four hours.

There are other demons,

But the well is dry.

Bunny in a gold van

On the shores of San Diego.

Long and lean

And freshly cut,

Morrison sings from inside

The small room.

It sounds like vinyl,

It smells of booze.

He slices a lime,

Shows off his sewing machine.

Tiny pictures on his arms,

A map to nowhere certain.

Just for the day,

A tour for two.

🖤 "In my defense, I have none

For digging up the grave another time" 🖤

Time Warp.

Clocks move f o r w a r d & b a c k w a r d

chasing pavement glittered with light.

A breath of air, escape from hell...

I see the outline of an endless night.

Another experiment written in the s k y

silhouettes of old love letters

burn brighter in the fire.

Democracy is dead.

The final nail in the coffin,

The last hope obliterated.

When will the madness end?

The struggle has gone on long enough,

Yet there is no knight on horseback

Coming with a cavalry to save us.

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