Dead Leaves Pull Harder

Trees have leaves; obviously. Though have you ever noticed that sometimes it’s just as hard, if not harder to pull a dead leaf off than a fresh one?
This is sort of how life works; newer things in your life are easier to separate yourself from, whereas something that’s been in your life for awhile is harder to detach from. I thought to myself that all these leaves, are attached to trees that give the leaves life; even still, leaves die. It reminded me, that not all things that appear to benefit you, truly do or will in the long haul. As far as people go, we sometimes cling to what we want or what we need; in the most harsh of cases we lose our morals, our minds, our hearts, or our life. Sometimes it’s not even our choice to be a leaf on a certain tree.

There is an upside though.. While leaves die, and crunch under your feet during the Fall, don’t they also come back in the Spring? You may lose your color and be a detached leaf on the ground, but there’s a new bloom just around the corner. Maybe you’re meant to be knocked down to be picked up.

Truth be told, you can crumble like a leaf many times attached to your tree of life. You just have to decide whether or not to bloom again.


Tinted Glasses Can Lead You Astray

Looking at people, at the world, you can’t help but wonder if you’re really seeing it for what it is. Everyone wears a set of glasses; a pair of spectacles that paint the town for what they wish it was. There are those who wear the famous “rose-tinted” lenses, who see love in the atmosphere and see tiny fairies doing good deeds through the kindness of others. There are those with crisp mint lenses, who wish to better the world; they see everything needs fixing -even things that don’t need it- and think everything needs improved upon. There are those in a violet haze, who see the subtle changes in tones, the difference in body language; these are the interpreters of the world. There are those with deep ocean blue, and they see everything for its deceit; they see into the depths of things, they look beyond the good and only acknowledge the bad. They are honest, but often misguided by their view.
The harsh reality we live in, is that no one truly lives in a clear view. We all see an obstruction of an obstruction, and we color it how we want to see it. Sometimes the haze changes color; it may take years, or it may take hours. Truthfully though, if everyone saw through clear glass, it would make us less of an individual. So what if I see through rusty orange spectacles? I can see pain in all its magnetism, I can see the goodness where there is some, and I can find beauty where there is none. Those glasses allow me to be me, and to possibly switch pairs with someone someday, so they may see my side of things.
It doesn’t matter that we all can’t see clearly.

What matters, is which color we choose to see the world with.

NPWM Twenty-Seven: Live-wire

My chest is filled,
With a heavy sense of warmth.
Not with the desire of lust,
But with the passion of fire.

My chest feels light,
With a delighted sense of intrigue.
Not intrigue to learn more,
But with a wanting of the next day.

My chest feels safe,
More than just bones protecting me.
Not protecting me from danger,
But protecting me from the things that scare me.

My chest glows bright,
Finally happy to be filled with light.
Not because I did anything,
But because you are my live-wire.

NPWM Twenty-Five: Neat Little-Box

Something about your hidden kindness,
Makes up for the brisk cold of the surface of your hands.
You have wild blue eyes,
always willing to tell a story,
Always willing to be the star.
Your wafting brown hair,
Matches the inner whimsical being that comes out when you’re content.
You believe yourself a failure, always needing to do better,
But truly in my heart, there is no one greater.
You have your heart kept in a neat little box,
It has decorations, of blacks and blues
Pretty enough so the outside unawares don’t want to peak in.
I’ve always seen past the colors, to that inner layer,
Where that pulsing violet hue is awaiting.

Something about your tiny little box,
Will always, forever have,
A piece of my heart.

NaPoWriMo Seventeen: Bliss

There once laid jubilant flowers in my garden,
They laid content in their green escapades.

There once were blissful birds,
Humming the tunes of natures call.

There once were merry breezes,
Who sung the song of leaves contempt.

The delighted outside world seemed one worth living for,
Not a disturbed crimson mushroom could toil my day.

There was a time when the mushroom seemed to corrode the surroundings.
It called for attention, begged for affection.
Sometimes the brightest things are not all they seem.

NaPoWriMo Sixteen: Heartache

I’ve lived a life, solemn and true.
This I swear to you.

I’ve lived in the crypts of my mind,
dusting away cobwebs left behind.

I take with me, my pride of having loved both,
I take with me, the substantial field of where I let the growth.

The crypts cobwebs hold flower petals,
And sometimes the truth clangs together with ill-gotten metals.

For sometimes evil needs it’s counterpart,
In order to act the out my emotions of the heart.

NaPoWriMo Fifteen: Mirrored

There are two mirrors on either side of me,
A game I’ve seen before.
One of hypnotizing splendor to my left,
One of disorganized chaos to my right.

Enticed by both, I must make a choice.
A captivating beauty on both sides.

The dark rumbling of thunder purs to my right,
A dark grey version of crimson grumbles.
A wispy breeze wafts to my left,
A lovely green hue cascades in the light.

There are two mirrors on either side of me,
Both paths I’ve walked down before.
My heart calls to roaring thunder,
My mind calls to the uplifting meadows.