Hello again :)

Hey there.

When things were really bad, I took comfort in writing; I wrote a lot of things down in a book that I had. Somehow I felt that poetry had the ability to express feelings in a way that nothing else could, and so I came up with a few poems of my own, in an attempt to express or even explain how I was feeling, even if just to myself.

And guess what - I just found the book!

Re-reading them just made me think, and reflect on the state I was in.

As hard as it might be to believe, it's actually quite difficult to remember exactly how it was.

I doubt I could accurately describe or explain it all to anyone now. 

All of the memories seem strangely hazy, I don't really know why. My guess is that I was so distant from everything, even myself, that it was like I wasn't really there; wasn't fully present, so it's almost like when you wake up from a dream - You can remember some things, but the more time passes, the more distant the memories become.

With this in mind, I just wanted to share some of my poems with you, with the hopes that they might help you as they helped me.

Here goes.

Broken Butterfly

Winding down, now.

Half empty, half full. 
Eyes red and face streaked with tears.

Calm.

All of the day's worries and woes washed away,

mingled with the bitter taste of salt.

Void of problems.

Void of worries.

Void of emotions.

Void of anything.

As if they had never been there.

Your red eyes and tear-streaked face the only proof of your struggle.

Quiet, now.

All thought disappears from your head as you listen to your steady heartbeat, 

quietly fighting to keep you alive as you lie there, staring at nothing.

What a wondrous thing, 

for something so small to have to work so hard to get you out of bed in the morning, and succeed.

Every day.

Thought returns.

That sounds rather like you doesn't it?

Silently struggling to function in a dysfunctional world.

Fighting to get out of bed in the morning.

You draw up the covers, cocooning yourself.

Oh, if only they knew how delicate butterflies can be.

You drift off to sleep, letting your wings repair from a day of being shattered, bit by bit.

Airing them out with your thoughts like sheets, so that they are pristine for the morning.

The Great white bird in a gilded cage

There is a cage lining my soul.

It offers protection and preservation for all that reside within.

But although internally warm and comfortable, it offers this protection for a price;

Freedom.

For within this cage dwells a bird,

Who's magnificent white feathers glow from the fire within.

But although surrounded by treasures unimaginable,

It is alone.

It gazes through the bars at the world outside, but cannot leave the cage for fear of harm.

Forever glimpsing the possibilities that accompany freedom,

But unable to attain them.

If you look closely, you may see scars underneath those magnificent white feathers,

Where it has tried to leave the cage, but has been caught by the brambles that lay just outside.

Now the cage remains locked.

But one day, the bird will leave the cage, and soar above the clouds beside moon and sun and stars, 

Free to spread it's wings at last.

My allergy to life

I have an allergy to life, it seems;

One which I can only escape in my dreams.

It starts with an itching, an ache in my heart;

A longing to have been somewhere else from the start.

To never have been born to world full of war, 

Or glimpse the ugliness inside of man's core,

To never have felt alone in a crowded room,

To never have felt neither shame nor gloom;

Neither sadness, disappointment, anger nor fright, 

Nor the despair of knowing you cannot fix man's plight.

The longing to be somewhere else, to be free;

To live in a world where eyes actually see.

In a world where I constantly feel out of place,

A soul as bright as fire, but as delicate as lace.

It's getting harder to keep all the embers alive,

But one way or another, I know I'll survive.

There's still so much that I have yet to give, 

Which is why I've decided that I have to live.

There's still so much that I have yet to do,

But I can start by sharing some fire with you.

My allergy to life will one day pass,

And I will be free to live at last.

But until all the symptoms go away, 

Deep in my heart the fire will stay.

Home

Home is a strange word.

One which cannot be defined by a dictionary, 

But, in fact, differs in meaning with each living soul.

To some, it speaks of warmth, love, family;

To others, solitude and fleeting memory of times long past.

For me, home is in the pages of a good book,

In the distinctive smell that drifts through the air as you turn each page,

And carries you to to distant lands filled with untold wonders.

Home is in the small nuances of nature, 

In each intricately patterned leaf,

In each hazel ring at the heart of a tree,

In each lilting song of the birds above as you drift slowly, one foot in front of the other,

Meandering through the trees.

Home is in the warmth of a blanket,

Wrapped up tight after a long day or week, 

With nothing to do, no plans to make, no one to please.

Just you and the warm mug in your hand,

As the sky turns dark and the stars come out to greet you,

And the weight of the world is lifted from your shoulders as you sit in quiet bliss.

Well, there you go.

I hope you like them, and more importantly, 

I hope they are of some help and comfort to you, even if just a little bit.

There is always someone there for you,

and this Sanctuary will always be here for you too, should you ever need it.

I wish you all the best,

All my love, from the Land of the Dragons (sunny this time, believe it or not),

IvyMoon xxx