Bubble Tea

I lifted my spirits to the ceiling, with a bit of bubble tea,
Then raised my glass to host the finest toast to my airborne friends, as they sky sailed over seas. I felt alone, in hopes that they would return, sometime before noon.
With no luck, I found my myself stuck in sticky thoughts that were beginning to bloom.

I filled my bathtub to the brim, and watch the waterfall.
Somewhere in the front of my mind, I didn’t mind at all.
The level carried me higher, and the current carried me west,
My house had begin to flood, and I grinned,
It was all for the best.

The bedroom shades had peeled from the wall, my bathwater stained in Technicolor.
This would be the greatest adventure, far beyond any other.
I held my nose and dived for the floor of the dining room hall,
That’s when I noticed my paintings were varnished,
and the underwater scenery had torn away from the coral walls.

The school of fish led me to their classroom of china plates and silverware,
The entire trip was far too classy for someone of my affair.
I swam past the guest bedroom door complete with a couch, dresser, and sewing machine,
Until I noticed the couple of scuba divers jumping merrily upon my trampoline.

Boy, the wonders of grandmother’s bubble tea.

Seventeen Years

Hold those thoughts tight, maiden.
Those white gloved hands must be clean.
Step by step, continue your act.
Though, careful not to cause a scene.
The crowd knows better, they see the truth in those tears.
You're playing it nicely, but he hasn't seen you smile in seventeen years.

When curtains call, we ask that you rehearse your acts.
Our technical difficulties have caused us to skip one too many tracks.
The audience is lost, our storyline as far since been thrown.
Into the seats, where the hunger will linger, where the director may feel most alone.
Your book was laying open, center stage.
Removing the collected dust from the surface, I read the words printed with age.
Then gently, I pressed the pen, and gathered my words.
And created a new page.

Tidal Wave Writers.

Rows of letters begin to grow hazy, blurring my vision ever so slightly.
Rhyme and reason are more and more difficult to comprehend.
I keep my grip on reality firm - grasping ever so tightly, desperately.
Then again,
Everyone needs a break now and then.

The screen before me now lacks my interest,
My fingers fail me once again.
Why has this curse chosen me to infect?
These words, these thoughts, so diffcult outside of my mind.

Of all the inventions this world has to offer,
Of all the things money can buy,
I wonder, if one day, something will be made for the writer?
For those who are finding it difficult to get by.
To jot our dreams down on paper,
There is our conflict.
Our unsettling feeling,
That our vocabulary cannot portray the things we've seen,
Past the day.
If something could be built,
Created or discovered.
Something that will show the world the world I have uncovered.

Oh, how they will read in awe!
Of such an imagination so extensive.
Yes, they will see these manifestations I saw!
So far from this world on which they live,
Conserved and trapped away from adventure.
Oh, if only I could somehow paint a portrait.

Lovers.

As shadows on these walls, we move.
Sliding across seasonal patterns,
As we lovers keep up with coming Autumn's news.

We broke the silence of that chilly afternoon,
He left the door open, letting winter indoors.
Oh, he left too soon.
Why would he leave so soon?

Lives spin along,
Our grandfather clock ticking quickly,
As he's in the wrong.
We're all falling into the wrong.

Now she sits alone.
Those vintage homes keep her lonely company,
As she waited for him to come home.
His love was sinking to her table,
Into her coffee and out her radio.
Laughter was a chore she was unable to do.

Long lasted her winter days,
He left his love on her doorstep,
And autumn had sent winter in waves of blue.
She left her love behind,
As we lovers do.