Just as the oil-stained canvas and the ink on this paper, feelings pour out and expand like water to vapor.
I am what you made me –
Some say strong and some say crazy.
When I’m all alone with nothing to do,
Lonely,
I realize,
It’s not me,
It’s you.
The world has lost the bulk of it’s sparkle.
What seemed like love actually feels awful.
Now I isolate myself and my emotions,
Until I discover an anti-love potion.
© 2012 RB
To sleep is for the boring and to dream is for the bored.
© 2001 RB
Off to bed to dream about what is and what will never be.
© 2001 RB
Life leads like love once lost;
Each path laden with traps for catching dreams of the future.
© 2013 RB
I am my own prisoner,
A fighting soul trapped in a surrendered mind,
A victim of my life’s own living.
© 1996 RB
Damn my fears of falling down with people staring as I frown.
In pain I feel I’m all alone,
The only place that’s safe is home.
I try not to think of the way that I’m feeling.
I use humor,
As laughter assists with the healing.
© 2012 RB
I’m hoping that a day will come when life’s most precious thing is not a thing but a one.
© 2013 RB
As she molded back into the tub of wax,
The medley that she came from,
She often thought it to be hard to maintain the shape she desired:
A little bird of yellow feathers with polka-dots of red,
Who sang a dark,
Blue song the whole night long and this is what she said:
Although I’d rather be a yellow bird than anything that’s grander,
I often find it all too hard to eat when life is bitter.
It’s easier this way you see,
To blend with all the others,
As broken wings and solemn things die slowly in the winter.
© 2001 RB
Since nothing is as special as a lovey-dovey rhyme,
I figured I would write you one but I just can’t find the time.
© 2012 RB
I don’t want to be your rag doll anymore. My threads have worn thin and I barely recognize myself. Once an item of adoration, no one wants to play with me anymore. I’m tired of sitting in your junk drawer with my eyes drawn open. Reluctantly smiling hurts my tired, drunk jaw. It will take some crafty stitching to keep this baby doll from falling apart.
© 2007 RB
Walking towards the music to the sounds of my despair,
If only I could better listen to the true rhythm that is there.
I dance solemnly without a partner,
To a march without a beat,
This chaotic twisting pattern has proved to be too much for my feet.
The pain that once was centered has traveled up and down my spine.
It has made me clumsy in my steps and foolish in my mind.
As I stumble out of these inconsistencies,
I hope to fall into my place.
But I only land inside a different song with a faster,
More painful pace.
© 2002 RB
Love is like the vowels of the alphabet,
It is what ties the world’s components together,
And without it there could be no words.
© 2002 RB
The past is a familiar juxtaposition of dreadful memories.
An existentialist’s nightmare is to not understand themself.
They do not comprehend what they have been through,
However,
Fear to go back.
They no longer wish for death because they have already degraded to their minimal reality.
At the climax of depression they feel as though loneliness is enough to kill them.
Once resilient,
They are disappointed by their inability to render reason –
Alone in a cave looking to the shadows to lead them to the light.
© 2002 RB
Here is to life.
There is still time to be proud to be alive.
Here is to time.
Fast forward.
Rewind.
Somewhere in my mind I can find a place to hide;
a place where everything is fine.
Somewhere in my mind is a place where I can fly.
High up in the sky where everything is fine,
I will hide.
© 2013 RB
A Blemish is a Blunder 