Stormy Skies

I fell asleep to the rain
trickling at my windowsill,
another dark and dreary day
in a world full of
sugar plum fairies
and happy people.

I guess it's just my corner of the world
that the malevolent sky's open for.

I had my first dreams in months
while listening to those drops,
they weren't dark like the clouds,
but they weren't as light hearted
and colorful as the world that surrounds me.

I guess my imagination lacks the complexity
of color, but then I'm not like most other people.

Words chiseled me from obsidian,
and it is now words that carve out my heart.
The pen, oh what a love affair we've had,
how many scripted evenings we've shared,
and now that same pen has soiled
my memory and my love.

I guess when I needed to hear the whispers
I was looking for tears,
and I suppose when I should have seen soaked eyes
and tattered feelings, 
I was listening for silence.

But then again, I never was one with open eyes
and the heart of a dreamer.

I found myself sitting in the rain watching
each perfect drop settle in it's place
on the earthen surface,
and I wondered where they went
after hitting the ground...

but I'm not a dreamer, and it's cold outside.
I'm soaked to the bone, and all I can hear
it the chattering of my own teeth.

Introspective...I think that's the word
that might best describe me,
Since apparently all I care about is myself.

I ran down a path thinking that the people following
would keep up with me,
thinking that they were OK
and that they didn't need my help anymore.

The old adage 'If you love something set it free'
comes to mind at the moment and yet it doesn't fit.
You see you can't set something free
that you never had in the first place.

You see you never truly own anything,
you only posses it for a short time
before it morphs or melds into something better,
or worse.

And I'm the catalyst, or so it seems,
for the worst.
this may be one of those half-truths 
that people speak of so often these days.

When does something become a 'half-truth'?
is it when someone doesn't want it to be true?
or is it when the truth just doesn't seem
good enough anymore, not quite solid enough,
or maybe just a glimmering doubt in your mind?

You see questions just spawn more questions...

But then I am deceitful as some might say,
so I could be leading you into my dark grove,
to listen to the whispers
like our friend Denethor.

I don't know how I feel anymore,
I don't feel pain like I used to,
and if joy knocked harder than
what a pin drop sounds like
then I must not have been paying attention.

Some people would ask me what's wrong,
others would guess,
most turn the other cheek and ignore the problem,
and that's just the way I like it,
in my dark little corner,
my shohikan grove,
my grave,
my mind.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved