Andi Leigh Writes

Flame before my eyes, Show my fate in your blue light. Uncertainty snuffed.

Whirlpool eyes try pulling me in. Where do I end? Where must I begin? Lured close, though, defiant I stand. Firmly planted. Nothing good at hand. Still as a rock and remaining unchanged. Whirlpool plans fall apart, not arranged.

Broken wristwatch, There’s no ticking. Time’s not sticking. Melting away under The quilted covers. The spirit hovers Over body asleep. Not even a peep, Comes from the Wristwatch there. A great affair With restfulness. Consequence. When eyes wake, Going to be late.

A whisper rustled the leaves while a young woman walked. Headed into the cemetery; she swaddled flowers in her arms. Careful not to drop them but unknowingly abusing the wilted bouquet with her devastated grip. And as she kept on walking the lampposts began to flicker on. One by one they lit the winding stepping stones and splashes of indigo stained the sliver of sun cradled beyond the horizon. Not afraid of the dark. She had nothing left to lose. She had already lost something so precious to her. Something irreplaceable that she waited for in a long grueling process. She did it alone. And alone she was again.

Marmalade daylight. Wispy high grasses surround Lofty sunflowers.

Silence; rich poison For the imagination. Aside from times Where it’s the best Treatment utilized. Either you are pulled Down a drain of Loathing song. Or the quiet brings Time to dust away Unforgiving entities.

Are you ever taken back To how we used to be? Watching the mind’s Old film reel; seeing us. Joined at the hip, We’d cross the city on foot Without care. Without purpose. Enjoying the company of Each other’s laughter. But we don’t share anymore. Buried in the past and although The rift came for us, Then after many unspoken years, Stitches were sewn. But we’re not the same As we were. Fondly remembered. Yet, we’re two Diverging strangers.

Concoction to aid. A quick fix in a spoonful. Void of remedy.

Treasure the sad soul. Too creative for this world. So they make new ones.

Illusions making Hearts warm. Feeling full. Blissful. Trickery will fade.

Feeling immortal. Until something comes along, Breaking paper walls.

A black ladybug On decorative bamboo. Alone but safe there.

In twenty-four hours, The same old thing blurs the days. It’s already night?

Washed out in panic. Adrift in blinding azure. Far from sun-kissed sands.

White noise, Loud comfort. Drowning out Spun clamor Worth dying. Force them out; With what sounds Like rain, fast as Silver bullet fire. Settle the nerves, Recentering serene. Given a pause in The swift hourglass. Moment enshrined, Until it’s time to rejoin Booming and sleepless Unpleasantries.

Tattered memory, Implanted, rooted, Deep within the vault, It springs forward, Pressing to be beheld. And I can’t place my finger On it. The way it makes me Shudder. Shapes seen, Lines traced. But picture Not formed. Lingering There but not wholly. Should I be emotional? This aimless feeling, Familiar but on the edge Of collapsing forgotten. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Words dragged out To nothing. Bothered By this faded thought.

Cosmic entity Quarrels with the survivors. No, they will not win.

Fear the reaper now? I say hold his hand instead. He is there to guide.

Dinner table talk. Opposing thoughts are spat out. Family discord.

Broken purple pen. The ink stains my shirt pocket. A long day ahead.

Do you hear that sound? That crawling in the wall? Do you see that shadow? Or is it just a shawl? Something hanging on The coatrack or Clothes under the bed? That’s not what I see. I see things that are dead. You really can’t see them? Their terrible grins? I can see right through Their translucent skins. They like to reach out, Groaning behind doors. These things love to run, And stomp on creaky floors. But you swear you don’t see them? They’re around throughout the day. They even like to follow you, But you don’t know what they say. A whispered message in your ear, They latch upon your back. Don’t look at me like I’m Some sort of maniac. One is right behind you. I see that you feel cold. Just don’t turn the lights off. They can’t be controlled.

Desolate city. Standing tall. Concealed in mountain peaks, Made with brick and stone walls. Once a bustling, commonplace. Now in ruin, society displaced. Brought down with self-destruction, The tales need no introduction. City empty but flame kept alive, Only in the hearts of story-tellers And their listener’s archive. Taken back by nature alone, New flora and fauna, Moss on cobblestone. Abandoned structures but still Brimming with flourishing life. Nothing more of human strife.

Take the backseat and tell me where you want to go. I’ll come through and speed off, never going slow. Even if you’re not sure, I’ll make sure it’s destiny. You’ll find where you need to be without any penalty. Your purpose, you’ll find it, I’m here to support it. Walk you through and contemplate your perfect fit. Don’t let them hold you down, I’ll even fight them off. What they think doesn’t matter. Go ahead, let them scoff. They try to put you in a box but you know just to ignore. Only you know what’s best for you. discover what’s in store.

An open casket. Finally sleeping soundly. Then her eyes go wide.

Lavender morning. Delighted satisfaction. Chamomile daybreak.

Radioactive heart, Beat, beat, beat. Stop. Be calm. Warbling strange, Pulsing outward From the chest. Thump. Thump. Sightings trigger, Waves emitting With captured Perfect imagery. Photographic eyes, Admire relentlessly. Enduring sickness, Worth the trouble.

What to do when there’s no sound. Not a drop of music in the air. Crystal clear void, stuffed in my ears. Restless worries don’t make good company. Yearning for a pin to drop, Causing an uproar in vacant space. Without even the hum from spinning blades, I tap my fingertips on marble to pass the time.

I think if I stay, I may burst into Flames. Do not belong With wishful Thinkers. Can’t fit in With heavy Drinkers. Where is it That I belong? In any crowd, Feeling wrong. Heart thumping, And breaking My ribcage. Unease does not Get better with age.

Strawberry sunrise. Resting within fine crystal. Intoxicating.

A tombstone alone. Without a name or date etched. Never a flower.

A blessing in disguise. Meaning the compromise? Trying to say it’s tough love. But feelings are shoved To the back burner forgotten, Connection rotten. Faking a smile, moving on, Never to be drawn Into each other’s energy, But it’s a sin for me, To protect my well-being, From poisoned words Masquerading as wisdom. Cycle continues in this Garbage system. Not knowing how to drop Living like a doorstop. Preventing damaged walls, But after all, The paper still peels, And reveals, Internal damage.

There was a piano at a Sunday street fair. And then a smiling bright old man, Who pulled up a wooden chair. Then he began to play a bubbly Cheerful song. It went on for a while, It went on for so long! But even so, the children gathered, And listened to him play. They stayed when the sun was blocked With thick clouds of gray. The man continued playing and, The song pushed back the rain. You could see the droplets start And then begin to wane. The milky sky turned back to blue, It was a sight to see. Music continued to echo through The crowd filled with glee. When finally after hours of the old man, Playing his wonderous tune, He got up from his chair and floated, Walking to the moon! Everyone watched as he skipped Up to outer space. They say on the moon’s surface, You can see the old man’s face.

The phone rings three times. When answered, there is a laugh. Then the lights go out.

The slaughterhouse blues. Poor teary-eyed merchandise. Death-filled pot of stew.

Under the overpass we go. Not likely to trail back Beneath it. Nothing like Clockwork, ready to jump Beyond the bridge familiar. Smelling offbeat air that’s Not like the stifling breeze In what once was home.

Fill your chalice with Fallen stars and gift Them to the ones Deemed wicked by Truly wicked ones. And in drinking the Last bit saved, Your blood, swiftly Pumping and sweet Potential soaks into Your once frail bones.

Fly your kite into my wounds, Assure me it’ll be over soon. Stitch me up with nylon line, Insincerely say, “You’re fine.”

Please just pack a bag. We will run from our hometown. Our saga begins.

Focused eyes watching. Cut-throat wilderness you see. A fawn is hunted.

Balloon in the sky. Pop! But another rises To the stratosphere.

I am a ghost, Floating Out to sea. Understanding What has happened To me. And Unfortunately I regret it, appalled. I don’t want to Be here at all. In the afterlife, I am all alone. Shifting realities, All on my own. When there’s nothing, There’s just Black empty space. When there’s something, It’s always just A demon face. So while you Are still alive, Make peace with all, Even if contrived. Don’t be like me, This sad little ghost. Please live life, And love the most.

Speak the language of art, And paint a bridge between us. Fill the void with cross-hatching And ink unforgettable marks in Our history. Envelope our lives In soft color-wash. Steady the Brushstrokes that render The vibrant hues that Keep us connected.

He waits for a ride. When he gets into the car, There is a sharp knife.

Reaching for the tree, The apple falls on my head. I eat in revenge.

Serpent in the brush. Feasting on wild garden mice. They scurry from him.

I speak and I dream In hues of magnificence. Yet, they pull me down.

Our hands grasp like twisted vines. Pulling apart is not at all designed. In wilting together and flourishing too, Unattended garden, it’s me and you. Sustained on rain and sun alone, We build up together in our home. Moments sprout and some will die, In tandem, we’ll look above at the sky. With intertwined roots anchoring deep, Side by side, each other’s to keep.

There’s a doll in my hand. I don’t know how it got there. A miserable-looking thing, with uncombed ratty hair. She wears a velvet dress, that attracted many moths. I tried to sew and patch the worn and tattered cloths. Lips were rather perched into a resentful pout. What made this doll so angry? What was she all about? Then one morning I found her hiding under the stairs. I guess she wasn’t grateful of my attempted repairs. It was rather strange at first. Her moving all around. Was I placing and forgetting her on the tile ground? There was a nice old spot on a shelf above my desk. That’s where I would put her but she became a pest. The little pitter-patter of her ruby porcelain shoes, Began to terrify me and she would be amused. I’d hear a tiny giggle in the closet in the hall, Or hear her playing and rolling a small glass ball. And finally I noticed in the kitchen a missing knife. Little devil plotting to send me to the afterlife.

Play the antique piano keys, Springing melodies as sweet As vanilla tea. Cherished in The early sunrise, pressing Rhythm, performing wise. Sharps and flats are smooth, They waltz. Gliding hands, Flutter without faults.

Wishing the mirrored Me will one day walk away To live their own life.

Whispers all around, Unclear, and although In an imagined mocking tone, thought to be reality, None of it is. Speculation Of untamed mind, seeping, Weaving tales into certainty. Torment brought down onto Restless intellect by one’s Own deprecating fist. And too hard do vicious Words drive nails into Crumbling confidence. Unable to take a stance, To rise beyond what is Thought. But gives in to the falsehoods of Dire bricks set in stone.

Jarring as a broken vase, Content to bleed anyone Picking up your pieces. Sands of time indicate, You can pick up your shards. Clink them together In your palms, wondering Why they won’t fit. Consequences bitter, Your tongue berating Whole vases on pedestals.

I’ll be Mother Earth, Nurturing your life. I’ll be Father Time, Watching seasons, Your growth, go by. I’ll be patient Death, Waiting to clutch Your capable hand. I’ll be beside you, Longing for notice. Seeking your voice. Until the final day, When your eyes Meet mine for the First and last time. I’m perceived familiar, And you are all I know.

Take a look at the glass. Splitting, turning to shards, Excited to dive onto the Unyielding brick beneath. Seamless a moment before, The future was decided by A sprightly rock, shooting, Into what was thought to be An unmistakably open window. Gaining the attention of one, Blanketed in ghastly shock. Now time cannot be reversed. Plan of a midnight outing, Postponed until better odds.

Well, there’s a funny-looking fellow. Constantly staring, ready to bellow. Nothing at all could even happen, But this lad will start speaking Latin. Crawling up and down the walls, On all fours backward, in the hall. Scurrying fiercely while chanting too, He scares me, does he scare you? Foaming at the mouth and cursing, Not stopping his head from reversing. Won’t someone out there help this kid? Not one person is brave, instead, they hid. Yet every time he’d sniff and find, A hiding place then they’re out of time. Last I heard, he lives under his bed, Motionless unless he gets into your head. That’s when he’ll lock-on and hunt his prey. After hearing that, I wouldn’t want to stay. In this house? No, not at all. He is there, Muttering and retching up on the wall.

Tell me something I don’t know. Encourage me to reflect and Learn about ideas I wouldn’t Have thought of. Speak to me, With thorough words that Spin me backward and turn The world around me in A new profound direction. Express to me symphonies That water the seeds I hold, Motivating growth and Willful adaptation.

Candle new, candle clean, The wax drips down My tattered sleeve. Burning just a little bit. The flame stands tall, With plenty wit. Showing the way In the tunnel, Leading so I won’t Clumsily fumble. Will I make it Out alive? I hope to see Freedom arrive.

Jacked up tornado winds, Thoughts dull, they spin. Making me wonder What’s the point? And seeing myself In a different light. Maybe it isn’t all bad. Why should I be sad? Moving forward, Even leaving behind, Is a regular occurrence. It’s perfectly fine. Shifting tides, Revealing new paths. Nevermind the Paranoid wrath.

Crackling of fire. In the plain dark of the woods. Enjoy the stillness.

Feeling ill at the thought, Of doing it all again. Making something happen, That causes the cycle to Insufferably repeat. What can one do? Either stand in the whirlwind Of the lunacy. Or take hold Of the tornado, whose goal Is to take everything. Pause. Looking to where the sun Meets the horizon. They kiss in balance. Wanting to be there. That is the goal.

Hearing noises from the attic. Asher begins to fear. To panic. Is there someone in his house? Could it be his devoted spouse? No, it can’t be Catherine at all. He knows she is behind the wall. Hidden there for many days, Eyes dried out, smell of decay. Always argued with her though. Now plans to bury her below. She is spotted around the house. Knife in hand, quiet like a mouse. Silent until she gleefully sees, Asher cowering. Her heart at ease. Tormented, twisted, Asher deserves, All of the hurt in the entire world.

Moonlit sky of mine, Grant me a favor. Shower Me in soft stardust.

Heavy is the heart when storms come, Washing the rocks away and leading The path astray. The sands pull away Into the depths. Never to be whole, Broken glass and shells. Not well. Cliffside fallen to the great tide. Hollow feeling, emotionless inside. Taking shelter from the winds, What was the great sin, Great atrocities committed. Into a steel box, tightly fitted. Forceful front-row view. If only we knew.

Dahlias in her hair, Making me stare, Visualized in Such a way. I dream of her To truly stay, This wonderful way. Smile soft like Sunshine, It is the time, To love her so, And go, Picking flowers, In rain showers. Holding her hand, Not even planned. But thankful to Be next to her.

Quiet like the moon. There is a bright glow to her. Stunningly somber.

Feeling like a chore, Wanting to do more. For myself, not For anyone else. Going ahead to plan. Memories better than, Just sitting, waiting, Teeth grating. Yearning for effort. Streamline events, Life making sense.

Menace of the storm. Thought to be an angry god. Whipping the wild winds.

Take a look and see, What your letters, Do to me. Making me cry, Weep, teary-eyed. Handwritten, In pigmented ink. Forcing me to think, Reading between The lines, to find, Clear meaning. Dreaming, Of writing back, Though I lack, The sense to send Letters to end The correspondence. Something magic. It’s awfully tragic. That the letters You mail, Pass through The veil. Since death Had taken you.

Creeping, In the dark, You start, To think, To blink, And see Shadows. Figures, Against The wall, They’re tall. With red beady eyes. You try To shake Them from Your mind. But they stay. Dancing, Against dim Blue lighting. You’re fighting, As they veer In your direction. No protection. Nothing to ward, Clawing forward. Grabbing and Demanding A final chance, To dance With you.

Paint it yellow, Like the sun. Let the rays Flow through. Let the paint Drip, speckle Over darkness. Gifting joy. Or at least Something Similar.

Terrible brain, I’ve forgotten What I needed To do today. What can I Even say? Needing to Write things down. I frown. I forget to Do that too. Thinking about The list, I wish, I could visually Keep. But it gets Buried in Jumbled words.

Bug on the wall, You crawl. making me look, At your many legs. I beg, For you to climb, Out of sight. Out of mind. Feeling an itch, I twitch, Thinking You’re on me. But it can’t be. You’re there, On the ceiling. Paint chips peeling. I’m feeling. Unnerved.

Empty urn. Pulled from a shelf. Designed by hand with care. Brought down into the morgue, No more an idle vessel. Protecting a soul, Preserving what should not Be seen. Loved one close by. No more a vacant capsule. An item of remembrance. Connection still strong, Taken home and placed In a spot to be viewed. Housing a ghost, In a place of memories.

Dangerous mind, Slinking across marbled Ground. Leaving behind Streaks and crumbs of pity. Pouncing at the right Perfect moment to spread Thoughts of grief. A virus. Dramatic when nothing is. Pulling anything near into The rotation of use and toss. But seen through so easily, After many chances. Over. Not this again. It’s done.

Monotone melody serenades, And deafens with unclear utters, Whirled around, stack barricades. Twisting truth with pure lies And causing discomfort to The fragile and tired mind. Ripping away at solace order, Threatening to break free and Release inhospitable disorder.

Spirit long purged of senses, Terribly gouged of recollection. Unaware of being. Beginning. Seemingly lonesome. Bored. Draped in malice, linens stained, Blotted deep with pooling Insincerity. Blossoming from Rotted bulbs of torment, Tracing cold fingertips, driven To harm. Cannot outrun. Confrontation desired but, Shoved into a muddy grave, With any chance of cleansing Redemption. Buried. Gone.

Risen promptly, undeniable. Before the daily break Of solar flame in the sky. Beaming past pillowed clouds. Encouraged to commence With productive activity. Instead met with sour Fatigue. Straining on weary Shoulders and battered limbs. Forced to drag and grasp ways Out of black-curtained solitude. In need of return to the comfort, Compelled by a quiet mind, Though waiting for it must Be done at lasting day’s end.