star bright, star light

I've got a fallen star on a shelf in my closet,
and a clock that ticks backwards,
while the box of chocolates grows stale.

We are the same, alone in our ice cubes,
yet I feel you drowning
while the distant guilt of a flashback
plays water torture on your forehead.

An exhalation brings calm to my heart
as I begrudgingly tiptoe towards the door.
I have become immune to the sense of dread.
(Guess who won that battle?)

Freedom is a second glance;
ignore the waterboarding
and focus on the absence of noise.

I don't want my soul to die
or my language to stumble, and
I can already hear the sirens as I
elope with a leaf.

The night holds me ransom,
furiously scribbling thoughts of its conundrum.
(Distraught snow fell peacefully on that rooftop,
as the world stretched in a poignant agony.)
Must we always cope?

Agonizing over every letter
with a reckless abandon,
blood drips on the page
as I frantically write out the demons
of a life lived in metaphors.

It's always the other kind, but
today the bomb won't stop ticking.
The ancient goddess of the dead
has held my hand while I shoved aside the silence.

I relate to every word and familiarity eases the ache.
Now I'm just waiting for it to break the chains,
because this is a cross I won't justify bearing.

The last thing I want is to be your chore.
Don't forget to tend the sheep, dear.
If you choose to bale the hay,
then you'll play this game with me.

I'm half past useless and a quarter to disappointment,
just skin over laughing bones,
so figure out a way to hold my words.
(Speak my language- never is waiting for the paint to dry.)

As the words assault me,
part of this becomes you.
Here's a hint- take what you know,
mix it with the unknown,
toss in a couple well placed questions,
and you can call me Sleeping Beauty.

Admit you're lost too?

The fallen star is locked inside a hand carved box,
gift wrapped with curls and marbles for a tongue-
holding on for a rainy day without a drop,
and a dropkick so swift the memories fall flying off the ivory tower,
crashing on the sidewalk with no names and rusted pennies.

They are calling for another meteor shower,
the last of its kind for at least half a lifetime.
So make a wish with me,
as I grow shy from the frustration that lacks a voice.

When I learn to stop speaking this language,
will you replace the glass with an ignited future?