The Woods

It appears I have stumbled really far into the woods,
The owls I thought were fascinating seem vicious.
The deer no longer come close, and stand their ground.
From afar I see the buffalo's gaze.

Its cold and I know I ignored your warnings to bring a coat.
I have leaches and I ignored your warnings to bring boots.
Indeed I have ignored all your warnings.
The cigarettes have run out, the batteries are running low, and my heart pays a price.

I sat down by a tree and counted how many pictures of you there were left.
I laid my foot by a small frog and tried to visualize the things we've seen.
I think I just needed a memory, some comfort.
Maybe a glass of milk to sleep a little better.

And when I go home, will I still be the same man?
Will I still bring you fireworks instead of flowers when I come to visit?
Will I still have strength in my bones to lift tears off your face when things go wrong?
Will we still laugh and feel safe even when we walk out of loves room and shut the doors...?

I picked some berries, and gathered some twigs.
I drank what was left of last nights rain water,
Tried to promise my soul this would be the last night.
But we both know that isn't true.

Sister, please come pick me up.
I can't remember historical facts or politics, or what I ate last night.
And I'm afraid of growing old
So I think I might just need a familiar shoulder to cry on.

The Shivers

I walk the snowy northern woods with a rusty shovel on my shoulder, a couple ounces of whiskey left in this bottle. The cigarette on my mouth is wearing out like the clothes covering my body, and despite the protection against the winter they give me, I still shiver. I closed this window to this room a long time ago, and it's still cold. To no surprise of mine these pieces of fabric, (much like the paper wrapped around the cigarette playing phoenix with my mind and lungs and dismay) are being mirrored by these boots on my feet, that buckle finally after so many years of use. I realize the situation is precarious and slightly dangerous perhaps, but I burnt the bridge a long time ago, because I have no sense of strategy.

In the end I should explain that, if these traveling eyes told stories they wouldn't be happy I guess, even the boring days sought after a roborant medicine or poison after the words spoken or real-time images flashed before them. And these ears that over the years were shielded by musical notes have only heard besides them a wave crashing by the pier, birds singing in the morning, a beautiful girl saying "I love you", these feet crushing the well-packed snow as they go by marching towards something important, the cigarette same cigarette as in the start burning away, and a piano key that seems a little off when compared to the many others.

I think it's a curse, placed on me at some point by the past long before I can even remember, maybe my soul is marked by continuous treason against the creator, though I still am confused about his real existence, sometimes though my inner self pleads for an attempt at a prayer to see if these goosebumps that haunt me ever since I was a child will go away, even if for a short day. And I can hear poetry and other things that rhyme going in and out of my mind like fireflies buzzing about. I stop for a second to take a final swig at the whiskey and throw the bottle on the ground so I can keep the cigarette in it and away from my warm tired eyes.

I take this time to wonder about the things in my life, my pros and cons. My love for my girl, my warmth for my friends, my carelessness, my addiction to cheap nicotine, the shivers, the presence that haunts me in my sleep when I lay my head down that falls on the bed like an anvil filled with thoughts as always. So many. I wonder if the souls I just buried under 6 feet of dirt and 2 of snow will come back to haunt me, so I get a little scared and the shivers stop for a brief moment. I think the few coins I have in my pocket to play steel guitar are ready to start jingling again with my hurried pace and fear of a noise I just heard out in the woods.

I had a 20 and the dealer had a 15, I could have said stop and taken home the gold but I said "hit me". Just slipped out like a careless thought to a summer time friend. I sigh and crack a smile at an invisible ally, that exists but isn't there. Much like everything that's perfect in my life, that friend is far away. I left home early and yet, I can still taste the copper taste of sadness and poverty in my mouth swiveling around with the sugary taste of love and pathetic attempts of watering made by a winter dry mouth and lips. The shivers are back and these clothes can't stop them, I just feel tired.

I've gotten out of the woods, and the people in the subway stare at me funny. Over time my ability to not care about opinions faded along with the ability to hold back words that don't harm the souls around me. I slur some words to a T worker about directions to the area my house is in, I've become slightly forgetful with time. I can't remember their answer, so I sit down on a bench outside the station as college kids stare with pity in their eyes, or some sort of console of a kind that I despise. I put my hands covered by my sleeves over my mouth, bend down to my knees and start to daydream, wishing I could find my way back home so she could warm me up tonight.

I fall asleep hoping that the sun of yesterday replaces the clouds of today, tomorrow.

Raindrop

Little Raindrop was born on the month of March, at a rainy morning.

His daddy was a healthy man born in the late night thunderstorm.

His ma was a Sunday morning shower, who contented herself on giving couples excuses to not leave the house and just stay in together.

They had met on the ground, as his dad was going down through the gutter in the middle of the crowd on a Boston street he had noticed Raindrops ma sitting there pretty on a cars window. He didn't muster up the courage to go do anything, so she had to be the one to fall down on the ground and come to his lovestruck aide.

I don't need to go on with this part, because this is Raindrops story, not theirs.

Little Raindrop was always an adventurous fellow, he would spend his days going about the entire city block from streets to sewers to any other place where water was welcomed. His fragility didn't bother him one bit, for he feared not the things that could kill him, but the things that blocked his life's roads. The lack of progress was Raindrops main fear at a young age, until he met Bubble. By this point in his life he would never be the same.

The story of Raindrop and Bubble, is as cliché as any other, but thats how it always happens.

He was sitting out on front a convenience store, it had been a rainy April afternoon. And across from him there was an old woman washing her clothes the old fashioned way. He was impressed at her fury towards the clothes as if she were discounting her problems on those poor unaware pieces of cotton fabric that just wanted to serve their purpose without any domestic violence.

With all her fury, bubbles started forming, and one rebelled. Her name was Bubble, and she had been born from an abusive relationship between an old woman and some pieces of fabric. Though Raindrop'll tell you she never enjoyed discussing her past.

Now as far as the rest of the story goes, nothing special happens. At least not to you, reader. Mainly because, despite the odds of such a thing happening, it doesn't stop this from not being Hollywood. Raindrop doesn't fuck up (he loves her too much to do so). Bubble doesn't get her heart broken, doesn't break his heart. They just stay together, enjoying each others company, meeting under the rainbows in the Spring showers. There are no villains who attempt to break them apart, there are no bored souls trying to take advantage of Bubble when she is saddened by a fight with Raindrop, and the same goes for him. Then again there are no fights, they have yet to find a reason to be that way.

This is just how it goes. You can't blame me for them having struck gold.

If anything, shame on you for expecting so much from water based things.