Dimmerswitches

Tired of sitting in darkness,
Waiting for the rain to stop falling,
Tired of trying to sound cheerful,
To these people I'm calling.

Don't really give a damn,
What they purchased, bought, or own,
Reading the same repetitive shit,
Like it's carved out in stone.

Feel like my life's on a dimmerswitch,
That can only turn to the right,
Getting dimmer and dimmer,
With no glimmer of light.

As the darkness gets darker,
With no hope for the sun,
My inner voice screams,
And my inner child runs.

In a fetal position,
I try looking around me,
But the darkness overwhelms,
Overpowers, and astounds me.

But, fear is only temporary,
So are hopelessness and pain,
And I'm a fighter and a winner,
So, I triumph once again.

Dark days, they come to all of us,
The key is to stand your ground,
To realize you have the power to win,
And don't let nothing keep you down.

Music Is

Music is the blood
That courses my veins
In melodic rhythms,
And tempos and strains.

My ability to stand,
To rise and shine,
My comfort, my freedom,
My right frame of mind.

It's the soul that flows through me.
It's my wind and my rain.
It's that spiritual healer
That let's me believe again.

It's my heartbeat, my pulse,
The brainwaves that control me,
My food, drug, and drink,
And the arms that console me.

It's every man that I've dated,
Every love that I've known,
Every dream I've lived out,
Every chance that I've blown.

It's my religion, my faith.
It's my church of choice.
It's the amplified echoes
Of my words, of my voice.

Magic cause it possesses
The power to heal,
To tell you a story,
Make you think, make you feel.

Inside every melody,
Note and chord I reside.
During the dark storms of life,
It's where I go hide.

When cut, I bleed music notes,
Lyrics and rhyme,
Blood trickling out
In three quarter time.

Blood droplets shaped like
Trebles and clefs,
In a deafening crescendo
Til there is nothing left.

A crescendo, my music,
Rising til your ears want to pop,
But you can't turn it off
Cause then my heartbeat...might...stop.

Prima Vera--Spring's Story

Always fresh, like new, green grass or the morning dew, Prima Vera brought new life to everything she touched. She touched a tree, dormant from winter's cold, and her tenderness coaxed the shy, baby leaves to show themselves. She touched a bluebird, and its song sang happiness that radiated like sun rays.

She adorned herself in the bright, azure blue of the sky and the vibrant, greens of the forest's foliage. Her laughter played upon the ears like the happy plink, plink of a child's toy piano, or the backyard wind chimes that secretly summon the fairies to dance.

Occasionally, her emotions overtook her. There were random moments of joy that caused her to rain gentle tears upon all in her presence--light sprinkles that caused them to giggle in their own joy, or to take cover in the nearest doorway or alcove. Sometimes, she was furious, and her screams seemed to echo off the mountains, through the valleys, and off the tenement buildings in the projects.

She never stayed angry for long. After each outburst, she apologized with roses, or tulips, daffodils, or dandelions. Her gifts were always appreciated. They were admired by man and beast, birds and bees alike.

Prima Vera like to think of herself as a dual personality. There were days when she was that soft, genteel lamb whose whispers licked the lobes of men's ears, and the napes of their necks until unbridled passion found them in jewelery stores in search of the perfect ring. And then, there were the days when she felt aggressive, like a lioness on the prowl. On those days, it seemed as if her playfulness knew no boundaries. She frequently knocked the hats off of gentlemen's heads, and tickled their faces with their ties as they hurried to work, and shamelessly lifted the skirts of unsuspecting women, causing them to re-think the length and style of the dresses and skirts in their wardrobes. Sometimes, her blustery laughter would just halt them in their tracks.

Prima Vera never stayed in one place for long. Three months was usually the longest she could stay still. After that, she travelled the world, flitting from place to place like Earth's butterfly, and just as she couldn't stay still for long, she couldn't stay away too long either. Year after year, people looked forward to her return. People swore that her return could be predicted by the shadows of small, woodland creatures, or that it was marked by the longer light of day, or white bunnies and multi-colored eggs, or children braiding May poles.

But, whatever it was that made her return special for each individual, she was always fresh, like new, green grass, or morning dew, and she always brought new life to everything she touched.

Connie Benton/ScorpioPoet/Rhythmic Rain