Ripples

Ceiling fans ripple when they spin. Milk is a soft violet color. And the sky is solid. There are secret things that only those forsaken of dreams know.

Expanses are walls painted vivid, and you really shouldn't be driving. You know you shouldn't be driving. Basketball players cheat and bricks move laterally ever-so-slow. Waves rock the land subtle. Grass is drawn. Air wisps.

When something isn't important it resonates, just to let you know. If you're not lost somewhere familiar, then you are truly lost. Rooms shrink when you are not paying attention. And secrets have a way of not being told.

But the moment your head caresses cotton, down; secrets slip down back into your bowels where you already knew, you always knew. Unless you told.

Awry

They told me I wouldn't be ready for the real world and I scoffed. Let me tell you something about the real world.

I saw adults living like dreams, whispers of squandered something-like-maybes. And as I overcame fears and stupid insecurities I gnawwed for the freedom in the "ohhh! so scaaaaaary" real world.

Dark cityscapes fell in front of me and I toppled their streets. I explored a couple forest depths and the realms of despair and faith. How many worlds I put in perspective, I thought I'd lost count.
I was naive.

Sometimes it's the absence that's scarier. A leap without a parachute into deceitful depths, blacker, while the hallmark cautions snicker hauntingly.
They said they'd give me the world.
So large and exciting, in this confectionary heirloom, though, is not sweet marrow but hollow abyss. A chocolaty Easter gone awry.

I didn't heed their warning. The suits who wanted to be young and chastised. The fucked-ups in their ambilvalent stupors. The delusional maternal martyrs. The saged and leaning.

I was listening, but I hear you now.